^, 


iir^-a^^V^. 


^  \^  ^. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


y£ 


I.I 


■  50     '^~ 

Si  124   ^" 


11.25 


1.4    ^ 


y- 


/ 


^^?-^ 


'/;^' 


-^ 


Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  USSO 

(716)  972-4503 


4r 


^ 


! 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notoa  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibiiographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


a 


n 


D 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I   Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommag6e 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  peillcuiie 


I      I   Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


n~1    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


r~~|    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
HeliA  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reiiure  serrie  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  ie  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
11  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  iorsque  cela  itait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  it6  filmAes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


L'Instltut  a  microf  llmt  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'ii  lui  a  At*  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibllographlque,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  Image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  Indiqute  cl-dessous. 


r~|   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagAes 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restauries  et/ou  pelliculAes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe< 
Pages  d6color4es,  tacheties  ou  piquAes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditachies 


I — I  Pages  damaged/ 

I — I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~7  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I      I  Pages  detached/ 


ry\   Showthrough/ 


Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quaiit*  inAgale  de  I'lmpression 

includes  supplementary  materif 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplAmentaIre 


I      I   Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I   includes  supplementary  material/ 


I — I    Only  edition  available/ 


Seuie  Edition  disponlble 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  imaga/ 
Les  pages  totaiement  ou  partieiiement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuiiiet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  filmAes  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Th 
to 


Th 
po 
of 
fiir 


Ori 
be( 
the 
sio 
oth 
firs 
sio 
or 


Th« 
sha 
TIK 
wh 

IVIa 
diff 
enti 
beg 
righ 
reqi 
mel 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous 

10X                             14X                              18X                             22X 

26X 

30X 

/ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

» 

28X 

32X 

lira 

detail* 
jaa  du 
modifiar 
lar  una 
filmaga 


Aat 


The  copy  filmad  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quaiity 
possibie  considering  the  condition  and  legibiiity 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  Iteeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


'e 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grAce  d  la 
gAnerosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Las  images  suivantes  ont  At6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  netteti  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  fiimis  en  commen^ant 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'iliustratlon,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimis  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernidre  Image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — *>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN  ". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  rMuction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  11  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


f  errata 
d  to 

It 

le  pelure, 

:on  k 


32X 

1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

POPULAR    NOVELS. 

BY  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


1.— GUY  EABLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 

2.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

8.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 

4.— NORINE'S  REVENQB. 

6— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 

6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 

7.— KATE  DANTON. 

8.— SILENT  ANT)  TRUE. 

9.— nEIR  OP  CHARLTON. 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM. 
11.— LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN. 
12.— A  WIFE'S  TItVOEDY. 
13.— A  CHANGED  HEART 
14.— PRIDB  AND  PASSION  (N«to). 


"  Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more 
popular  every  day.    Their  delineations  of  character, 
life-like  conversations,  flashes  of  wit,  con- 
stantly varying  scenes,  and  deeply  inter- 
esting plots,   combine   to   place 
their  author  in  the  very 
first  rank  of  Modem 
Novelists." 


All  pablished  aniform  with  this  volume.    Price,  $1.00 
each,  and  sent  free  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price, 


BT 


G.  W.  CABLETON  &  CO.,  Pablishers, 
New  York. 


A 


WIFE'S  Tragedy. 


^  NoucL 


BY 


MAY    AGNES    FLEMING, 


AUTHOR    OF 


•  SILENT  AND  TRUE,"  "  A  MAD  MARRIAGE,"  "  A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN,' 

"GUY     EARLSCOURT's      WIFE,"    "ONE     NIGHT's     \.     STERY," 

"A  TERRIBLE    SECRET,"    "LOST   FOR   A  WOMAN," 

ETC.,     ETC.,    ETC. 


*'  For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history. 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth." 
Shaksheare's  Mid.  AHght's  Dream, 


««& 


G.    W. 


NEW    YORK  : 

Copyrlpht,  1881,  by 

Carle  ton   &   Co.,    Publishers, 

LONDON  :     S.    LOW,    SON    &    CO. 
MDCCCLXXXI. 


'^•<> 


y 


r 

^ 


stereotyped  by 

SAMirFX    S'lODDER, 
ELECTKOTrPKR  &  StEREOTYPBR, 

90  Ann  Strkkt,  N.  Y. 


Trow 
Printing  and  Book-Binding  Co. 
N.  Y. 


CONTETfTTS. 


4 


OHAFTKB  TAOM 

I.  Arthur  Sutherland -..,..   7 

n.  Eulalie 27 

III.  Beginning  of  the  Trouble 47 

IV.  Battling  with  Fate 66 

V.  Fate's  Victory 83 

VI.  Told  in  the  Twilight 101 

VII.  Struck  by  Lightning 116 

VIII.  Taken  Away 134 

IX.  ♦♦  Come  what  Will,  I  have  been  Blessed." 151 

X.  The  Lull  before  the  Storm 163 

XL  At  the  Concert 177 

XIL  Mr.  Gaston  Benoir 194 

XIIL  Mr.  Benoir's  Letter , 205 

XIV.  Mr.  Benoir's  Shadow 216 

XV.  Rebecca,  the  housemaid  231 

XVL  A  little  Tangle  in  Mr.  Benoir's  Web 244 

XVIL  On  the  Scent 261 

[V] 


vi  CONTENTS. 

OBAFTBB  PAOl 

XVIII.  Brought  to  a  Reckoning 283 

XIX.  At  the  Summer-house 297 

XX.  Confidential 313 

XXI.  Mr.  Benoir's  Dilemma 326 

XXII.  Deepening  Mystery 347 

XXIII.  Eulalie's  Flight 366 

XXIV.  After  the  Inquest 378 

XXV.  Dark  Days 395 

XXVI.  Found  and  Lost 411 

XXVn.  After  E'ght  Years 420 


A  WIFE'S   TRAGEDY. 


CnAPTER  I. 


ARTHUR  SUTHERLAND. 


K.  ARTHUR  SUTHERLAND  sat  by  the 
open  window  of  liis  room,  in  the  Metro- 
politan, smoking  a  cigar,  and  watching  the 
ceaseless  tide  of  humanity  ebbing  and  flow- 
ing on  Broadway.  Three  o'clock,  and  a  sunshiny 
May  afternoon — sillvs  and  satins  and  beautiful  faces 
sweeping  down  to  meet  dress-coats,  and  switch  canes, 
and  mustached  faces,  sauntering  up.  An  organ-grinder, 
right  below,  was  playing  a  h'vely  air,  and  it  seemed  to 
Arthur  Sutherland  that  the  men  and  women  were 
keeping  time  to  his/music,  walking  through  the  great 
quadrille  of  life^/For  what  is  it  all,  this  ceaseless  glid- 
ing in  and  out,  bowing  and  dipping,  and  forward  and 
back,  but  a  mighty  quadrille  that  we  dance  every  day, 

[7] 


/ 


8 


AllTlWR    SUTnERL^D. 


with  the  inusic  in  our  own  hcar^ whether  that  music 
be  a  jubihito  or  a  dead  march. 

Arthur  feutlierland  sat  and  watched  the  ever- 
shifting  paiArama,  with  a  faco  as  serene  as  the  briglit 
May  day.  /Why  not  ?  Ilo/Was  young,  and  handsome, 
and  rich,  just  returned  fi*o.n  making  the  grand  Conti- 
nental tour,  and  disn^d  to  tliink  there  was  no  place 
like  liomc  after  all.  *^  Young,  and  handsome,  and  rich  ; 
surely  all  that  the  world  can  give  of  happiness  is  con- 
tained in  these  three  words ;  and  Arthur  Sutherland 
was  happy-T^ery  happy  indeed  this  pleasant  May 
afternoon.^This  bright  little  world  of  oui*s  looked  very 
much  to  him  as  Eden  must  have  done  to  Adam  on  the 
first  day  of  his  life,  and  Eve — yes.  Eve,  was  up- town, 
in  a  I  own  stone  front,  and  only  waiting  the  word  to 
make  him  blessed  for  life,  i/ 

There  was  a  tap  at  his  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland,  without  looking 
round  ;  and  some  one  obeyed  and  crossed  the  room, 
and  struck  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder  with  a  kid- 
gloved  hand.  Mr.  Sutherland  turned  round  to  see — 
not  the  waiter  he  had  expected,  but  a  gentlemanly 
young  man,  elabcrately  attired,  faultless,  from  the 
toes  of  his  shiny  boots  to  the  crown  of  his  silk 
hat. 

"  Why,  Phil,  old  fellow,  is  it  you  ?"  said  Arthur 
Siitherlandj  grasping  both  his  visitor's  hands.     "Here's 


AUTIlVn    SUTUICRLAND. 


0 


a  8uri)riso  I      "VVLero    in   the  world    did    you    coino 
from?"    / 

"  Where  did  I  como  fron.  ]"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Sutherland's  visitor,  taking  a  seat,  after  a  prolonged 
shake-hands.  "I  think  it  is  I  who  should  ask  that 
question !  Where  do  you  come  from,  and  what  do  you 
mean  hy  being  in  New  York  a  whole  week  and  not  in- 
forming your  friends?" 

"  How  should  I  know  my  friends  were  here  ? 
What  are  you  doing  in  New  York  ?  Practicing;  your 
profession  ?" 

"  When  I  get  any  practicing  to  do  ;  but  the  people 
who  know  me  are  so  confoundedly  healthy,  and  the 
people  who  don't  know  me  won't  employ  me  ;  so,  be- 
tween both,  I  am  in  a  state  of  genteel  beggary.  1 
wish,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland's  visitor,  vindictively, 
"  the  spotted- plague,  or  the  yellow-fever,  or  the  small- 
pox, would  break  out !  A  man  might  have  some  chance 
of  living  then." 

"  He  would  stand  more  chance  of  dying,  I  should 
think,"  said  Arthur  Sutherland,  smiling.  "  Wliy  don't 
you  go  down  to  St.  Mary's,  and  hang  out  your  shingle 
there  ?  This  big  city  is  surfeited  with  ambitious  young 
doctors  and  well-established  old  ones.  Physicians  are 
few  and  far  between  and  old-fogy ish  la  St.  Mary's,  and 
the  people  know  you  tlierc." 

"  For  which  very  reason,"  said  the  young  doctor, 
1* 


10 


AHTIIUi:    SUTUEHLAND. 


dejectedly,  "  they  wouldn't  employ  me.  Do  yon  sup- 
pose the  men  and  women  who  knew  little  Phil 
Sutherland  when  he  wore  petticoats,  and  got  spankings, 
would  employ  Doctor  Philip  Sutherland  to  drag  out 
their  double  teeth,  or  cure  their  colics  or  rheumatisms. 
No ;  I  might  blue-mold  in  the  grass-grown  streets  of 
St.  Mary's  before  1  sold  sixpence-worth  of  physic." 

Arthur  Sutherland  laughed.  There  is  no  joke  so 
good  as  the  misfortunes  of  our  friends,  when  we  are 
beyond  misfortune's  reach  ourselves.  They  were 
distant  cousins,  these  young  men,  bearing  the  same 
good  old  English  name  ;  but  th(;re,  all  resemblance  be- 
tween them  ended.  Arthur  Sutherland  was  rich ; 
Philip  Sutherland  was  poor.  Arthur  had  a  mother 
and  sister,  and  a  home ;  Philip  had  no  nearer  kindred 
than  this  distant  cousin,  and  no  home  but  in  swarming 
boarding-houses.  He  had  been  M.  D.  for  about  half  a 
year,  and  found  it  terribly  up-hill  work. 

"  All  a  chap  can  make,"  said  Doctor  Sutherland, 
moodily,  "  won't  pay  his  board,  and  keep  him  in  paper 
collars  and  cigars.  As  for  the  theater,  or  paying 
tailors,  or  bootmakers,  that's  out  of  the  question.  If 
they  would  take  payment  in  blue-pills,  and  castor-oil, 
or  blistering,  or  anything  professional,  I  might  manage 
somehow ;  but  they  won't.  Tailors  and  bootmakers 
never  seem  to  be  sick,  or  have  their  teeth  drawn  ;  or,  if 
they   do,   they   won't   come  to   me !     I   wish    I  had 


li 


AllTIlUH    iSUTUIiULAyD. 


11 


taken  to  tailoring  niysulf — it's  nioney-iiiakiiig,  and  it's 
lijimly  to  bo  ablo  to  make  your  own  coat  and  panta- 
loons. I  liavc  a  strong  mind  sonietinios,  aa  it  is, 
to  throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  and  take  to  the  needle 
and  goose." 

"It's  a  harrowing  cjise,  certainly,"  said  Arthur, 
laughing ;  "  but  don't  disgrace  the  name  of  Sutherland 
yet.  You  know  my  j^oor  mother's  proudest  boast  is, 
there  never  yet  was  a  Sutherland  in  trade.  Stick 
to  the  scalpel  and  lancet,  dear  boy,  and  marry  aa 
heiress !" 

"That's  easier  said  than  d-mc,"  Doctor  Sutherland 
replied,  more  moodily  still.  "  I'd  marry  an  heiress 
fafit  enough  if  I  could  find  one  to  have  me,  let  her  bo 
ugly  as  a  Hottentot.  But  I  never  knew  one  heiress  to 
speak  to ;  and  if  I  did,  she  would  treat  me  like  the 
rest.  She  would  sail  past  me  with  upturned  nose,  and 
plump  into  the  arms  of  some  fellow  like  yourself,  with 
more  money  already  than  you  know  what  to  do  with. 
Marry  an  heiress!  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  the 
chance  !" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  only  in  novels  that  millionaires' 
daughters  elope  with  grooms  and  fortunes,"  said 
Arthur ;  "  and  yet  there  ought  to  be  heiresses  in  Xew 
York  in  these  days  of  commercial  fortune-making  ;  and 
you  are   not  such  a  bad-looking  fellow  in  the  main, 


'*i¥h 


^:  I 


12 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND. 


Phil !     Hope  on,  hope  ever,  my  boy !   there  is  no  tell- 
ing what  is  in  store  for  you  yet." 

"  Yes,  there  is  the  poorhouse,"  Dr.  Sutlierland  re- 
plied, glooinilj^ ;  "  unless  I  take  to  street-sweeping  or 
some  other  useful  avocation  to  prevent  it.  I  think 
I'll  emigrate  to  Mexico  or  Havana;  they're  nice  un- 
healthy places  in  hot  weather,  and  doctors  ought  to 
thrive  there.  And,  by  the  bye,  speaking  of  Havana," 
said  Phil  Sutlierland,  rousing  himself  from  his 
state  of  despondency,  "are  you  aware  your  mother 
and    sister  spent  January   and   February  there    this 


year 


«" 


"  Yes,  certainly.  My  mother  wrote  me  from 
there,  and  went  into  rhapsodies  over  the  beauties  of 
Eden  Lawn  and  its  mistress.  I  was  in  Switzerland 
at  the  time,  among  the  ice  and  snow,  and  it  was 
rather  odd  to  read  that  the  weather  was  oppressively 
warm." 

"  Your  mother  liked  it,"  said  Phil,  "  but  yonr 
bl  "♦'er  Gusty  didn't.  You  ought  to  hear  her  abusing 
the  place  and  the  people,  the  heat  and  the  mosquitoes, 
the  church-going  bareheaded,  and  the  two  meals 
per  day." 

"  Poor  little  girl !"  Arthur  said,  smiling ;  "  two 
meals  per  day  I  knew  would  not  suit  her.  Who 
were  the  people,  and  how  did  my  good  mother  make 
their  ac<iuaintance  ?" 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND. 


13 


"  It  was  at  Montreal.  You  >now  your  inotlicr 
Bent  Auijusta  to  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Ileai't 
there,  to  be  finished." 

Artliur  nodded. 

"Well,  among  the  pnpils  there  it  seems  was  a 
lovely  young  Crc^ole,  Mademoiselle  Eulalie  Kohan, 
English  on  the  paternal  side,  French  on  the  maternal, 
fabulously  beautiful,  and  fabulously  wealthy.  Your 
mother  saw  her,  and  was  enraptured.  The  liking,  it 
appears,  was  mutual ;  for  a  pressing  invitation  followed 
from  the  young  lady  and  her  grandfather  to  spend  the 
winter  in  Cuba ;  which  invitation  was  accepted.  Gusty 
told  me  in  a  letter,  only  on  condition  that  Mr.  and 
Miss  Rohan  should  spend  the  ensuing  summer  at 
Maplewood." 

Arthur  Sutherland  looked  surprised. 

"  Indeed !  I  was  not  aware  of  that.  Has  Made- 
moiselle no  relative  bat  grandfather  ? " 

"  Not  one,  it  appears.  She  has  been  an  orphan 
from  earliest  childhood,  and  this  old  grandfathcir 
idolizes  her.  Her  fortune  is  beyond  computation, 
Gusty  says.  There  is  a  princely  estate  in  South 
America,  another  princely  estate  in  Louisiana,  and  still 
another  in  Cuba.  Except  the  Kothschilds,  Mr.  Holian 
and  his  pretty  granddaughter  are  about  the  richest  peo- 
ple in  this  lower  world." 

Arthur  Sutherland's  small  white  hand  fell  liglitly 


14 


ARTUUR    BUTUERLAND. 


on  his  cousin's  shoulder,  and  his  blue  eyes  lit  up  mis- 
chievously. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  very  thing.  Nothing  could 
fall  out  better.  This  heiress  of  fabulous  wealth  and 
beauty  is  to  spend  the  summer  at  Maplewood.  Dr.  Phil 
Sutherland,  young  and  good-looking  and  fascinating, 
shall  spend  the  summer  at  Maplewood  also.  The 
beautiful  heiress  and  the  fascinating  physician  will  be 
perpetually  thrown  together — riding,  driving,  walking, 
sailing.  The  result  is  apparent  to  the  dullest  compre- 
hension. Dr.  Sutherland  will  leave  Maplewood  a 
married  man  and  a  millionaire." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Dr.  Sutherland,  in  a 
hopeless  tone,  as  he  lit  a  cigar ;  "  no  such  luck  for  me ! 
It  is  for  my  dear  cousin  Arthur  this  golden  trap  is 
baited.  You  know  the  old  proverb,  '  He  that  has  a 
goose  will  get  a  goose '." 

"  For  me  !    Nonsense,  Phil." 

"Is  it  nonsense ?  It  is  a  wonderful  woman,  that 
stately  mamma  of  yours,  old  boy ;  and  this  gold- 
bullion  heiress  is  for  her  Arthur — her  only  one,  and 
nobody  else." 

"  Then  my  stately  mamma  will  have  her  trouble 
for  her  pains,"  said  Arthur  Sutherland,  coolly ;  "  I 
have  no  fancy  for  gold-bullion  heiresses,  or  for  having 
the  future  Mrs.  S.  selected  for  me  in  this  right  royal 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND. 


15 


^t  up  mis. 

^"'ng  could 
vvealt]i  and 
^-  Dr.  Phil 
"ascinatinff. 
Iso.      The 
in  will  be 
walking, 
conipre- 
lewood  a 

f-nd,  in  a 
^  for  me ! 
ti  trap  is 
at  Las  a 


an,  that 
s  gold- 
ne,  and 

trouble 

Y\    "I 

'laving 

rojal 


fashion.  No  more  have  I  for  sWarthy  skins  or  tornado- 
tempered  Creoles." 

"  No,"  said  Phil,  puffing  away  energetically.  "  No ; 
you  like  pink  cheeks,  alabaster  brows,  and  pale  auburn 
ringlets.     Miss  Isabel  Yansell  is  a  very  pretty  girl." 

Arthur  Sutherland  tried  to  look  unconscious,  but  it 
would  not  do.  The  slight  flush  that  reddened  his 
handsome  free  ended  in  a  laugh. 

"  There  you  go  again,  talking  more  nonsense  !  It 
is  a  lovely  afternoon,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland,  awakening 
suddenly  to  the  fact ;  "  suppose  we  take  a  stroll  down 
Broadway." 

"  With  all  my  heart.     But,  first,  when  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"  When  is  what  to  be  ?" 

"The  wedding  of  Arthur  Sutherland,  Esquire,  of 
Maplewood,  Maine,  to  Miss  Isabel  Yansell,  of  New 
York  City."  i 

"  As  if  I  would  put  you  au  fait  of  my  love- 
matters  !"  said  Arthur,  drawing  on  his  gloves.  "  Who 
has  been  talking  to  you  of  Miss  Yansell  ?" 

"Oh,  I  happen  to  know  the  lady.  She  blushed 
beautifully  yesterday  when  she  asked  me  if  I  had  seen 
my  cousin,  Mr.  Sutherland,  since  his  return  to  New 
York.  Didn't  I  stare  !  It  was  the  first  intimation  I 
had  of  your  return." 

"  Which  proves  you  don't  read  the  papers  ;  my  re- 
turn was  duly  chronicled." 


i  ! 


ARramt  sirrmsiAsj). 

"  J^nt  you  have  not  seen  her  " 
;;That«akesnotthesh-ghtesMifference.» 

-^li  the  better  I     T  ah^nW  i-i 
i-ve  a  handsome  wife     TI     «    I      '"^  """"^  ^^  ^ 
P'-etty  women."  "  ^"'J«^rfauds  always  marry 

"Humph I"  muttered  Dr   Phil   fl-     •       . 
«'t  of  the  window,  and  risin.'to         f""^'"^  '"''  '=^««'- 
fe"-l.a>red  Isabel  to  ..!         ^      ^'  '     '""^  ^^^'"^  i«  the 

1  do,  I  will  let  you  kno         ''^^""^  ^''^'^n  "when 
Here  we  are  on  tlfepav:"        ''''"'  '"^  *''°  -'>J--*- 

and'madr:  veT'prr  Tr'^'^  ^-^'  ---m. 

l-een  boys  to^tW  TS't ,  ^'""  "'  '*•  ^'^^  ^^d 
together,  and  herLn?  "^^  ""•°"^''  -"^ge 
>---otheyI:,'  IrjTr^^^-^- 
dinod  together  some  hours  laf  .  '''"'*■  T'-^ 
i"to  a  fashionable  theater  totr        '"'^'"'  ^"-""ed 

-f-"aH.a„dhis^::ro;hrrrr 

tfiat  was  over,  Arthur  Snf.  ,  f  ^^"'-  ^"d,  when 
^^fetropoHtan,  and  P^ h'  c  tf 'f  "'^'"  "-'<  '«  the 
-t-side  boa;din,.ho.;;e  '  '™'  '■^'"^'''^  *<>  '- 

I'i'e  gas  was  burning  low  in    a  u        „ 

■•-"  when  heeateredit  .7;°  f""r  '""'"''""^'^ 

'  ^'^  "*  t'le  obscurity  he  saw 


AliTIIUIi    SUTUERLAND. 


17 


a  wliite  patch  on  the  crimson  tablecloth — a  letter.  He 
turned  up  tlie  liglit  and  looked  at  it.  The  address  was 
written  in  a  delicate  Italian  running-hand,  and  the 
envelope  smelt  like  a  je&samine-blossom. 

"  From  my  mother,"  thought  the  young  man. 
"  She  reads  the  papers,  if  Phil  does  not.  Arthur 
Sutherland,  Esquire,  Metropolitan  Hotel,  New  York. 
Exactly !     Let  us  see  what  it  says  inside." 

He  opened  the  envelope  with  care,  and  drew  out 
four  sheets  of  fine  pink  paper,  closely  written  and 
crossed.  There  was  a  fifth  sheet,  much  smaller,  and  in 
a  different  hand — careless  and  sprawling,  and  a  trifle 
blotted.  The  young  man  smiled,  as  he  laid  it  down  to 
read  his  mother's  first. 

"Poor  little  Gusty!"  he  thought.  "That  big 
slapdash-fist  and  these  blots  are  so  like  you !  If  you 
ever  write  love-letters,  I  hope  you  will  have  an  open 
graiumar  and  dictionary  before  you  ;  for  your  spelling 
and  composition  would  send  Lindley  Murray  and  John 
AValker  into  fits.  The  nuns  of  the  Sacred  Heart  may 
bo  very  accomplished  ladies,  but  they  haven't  succeeded 
ill  drilling  spelling  and  gi'ammar  into  the  head  of  my 
only  sister." 

Mrs.  Sutherland's  letter,  dated  Maplewood,  was 
very  long,  very  affectionate,  and  very  entertaining. 
Her  delight  was  boundless  to  know  her  darling  was  at 
home  again ;   her  impatience  indescribable  to   behold 


iW 


II  > 


18 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND. 


him.  She  and  Augusta  were  well  and  happy.  Maple- 
wood  was  looking  lovely  tliis  charming  May-weather, 
and  Mr.  and  Miss  Rohan  were  enraptured  with  it. 
And  from  this  point  all  Mrs.  Sutherland's  letter  was 
taken  up  in  singing  the  praises  of  Miss  Eulalie  Rohan 
— her  fascination,  her  grace,  her  wealth ;  above  all,  her 
inconceivable  beauty.  Mrs.  Sutherland  could  find  no 
words  strong  enough  to  tell  her  son  her  admiration  of 
this  young  lady. 

Her  son  took  it  very  coolly,  lying  back  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  smoking  as  he  read.  When  he  read  the 
finishing  sentence — a  strong  appeal,  that  sounded  like  a 
command,  to  come  home  immediately,  and  immediately 
was  underlined  twice — he  laid  it  do^vn,  and  took  up 
the  other. 

"  Yery  well,  mother !"  he  said,  half  aloud,  "  I  will 
go  home ;  but  I  won't  fall  in  love  with  your  Creole 
heiress,  and  so  I  give  you  warning  " 

The  second  epistle  was  in  a  very  different  style.  It 
was  short  and  energetic,  and  to  the  point,  and  not  very 
easy  to  decipher.  Miss  Augusta  Sutherland  told  her 
brother  she  was  glad  he  had  come  back  from  that  horrid 
Europe,  and  she  hoped  he  would  come  home  at  once, 
and  stay  at  home,  as  he  ought  to  do.  They  had  Eulalie 
Rohan  and  her  grandfather  with  them,  and  mamma 
was  just  bewitched  about  that  Eulalie. 


'ARTHUR    SUTUERLAND. 


10 


y-    Maplo- 
ij-wcather, 
Jd  with  it. 
Jetter  was 
^Jio  Kohan 
'  e  all,  her 
find  no 
liration  of 

his  arm- 
read  the 

ied  like  a 

nediateJj 

took  up 


yie.     It 
ot  very 
)Id  her 
horrid 
i  once, 
SulaJie 
amma 


"  I  dare  Bay,"  wrote  the  young  lady,  "  you  will  be 
had  as  the  rest,  and  go  stark,  staring  mad  about  her 
black  eyes,  and  pale  face,  and  long  curls,  the  moment 
you  see  them.  Every  one  does.  Even  at  school  it  was 
just  the  sitme ;  and  I  declare  it  turns  me  sick  some- 
times. She  has  only  been  here  a  week,  and  not  a  soul 
of  them  in  St.  Mary's  can  talk  of  a  single  blessed  thing 
but  the  black-eyed  beauty  up  at  Maplewood.  Of 
course,  I  am  nowhere.  Even  mamma  scarcely  takes 
any  notice  of  me  now.  And  when  you  return  it  will 
be  the  same,  only  more  so.  Of  course,  you  will  fall 
in  love  with  Miss  Rohan  and  her  overgrown  fortune, 
and  there  will  be  a  wedding  at  Maplewood.  At  least, 
if  there  doesn't,  I  know  mamma  will  have  to  be  put  in 
the  nearest  lunatic  asylum.  Come  home  as  fast  as  you 
can.  It  is  rather  pleasant  seeing  one's  fellow-beings 
making  fools  of  themselves  when  one  gets  used  to  it ; 
and  I  know  you  will  take  the  Cuban  fever  as  badly  as 
the  rest.     Your  affectionate  sister, 

"  Augusta  Sutherlaot). 

"  P.  S. — Phil  Sutherland  is  knocking  about  New 
York  somewhere  in  his  usual  good-for-nothing  way,  if 
the  authorities  have  not  send  him  to  Blackwcll's  Island 
as  a  vagrant.  If  you  see  him,  you  may  feich  him  to 
Maplewood.  If  he  is  not  blessed  with  the  usual 
quantity  of  brains,  he  is  at  least  harmless,  and  it  will 


in 


20 


ARTHUR    SUTUERLAND. 


be  a  sort  of  charity  to  keep  iiim  for  the  Buinmer.    Tell 
him  I  said  so.  A.  S." 

Mr.  Sutherland's  gold  repeater  pointed  to  half-past 
one  as  he  finished  the  perusal  of  these  letters.  He 
rose,  folded  them  up,  thrust  them  into  his  coat-pocket, 
turned  down  the  gas,  and  prepared  to  retire. 

"  Poor  little  Gusty !"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a 
yawn.  "I  don't  think  her  convent-life  has  changed 
her  much.  She  does  not  seem  to  be  so  enraptured 
with  this  Creole  belle  as  my  mother;  but,  then,  it 
never  was  the  little  girl's  nature  to  go  into  raptures 
over  anybody." 

Doctor  Philip  Sutherland  presented  himself  next 
morning  at  his  cousin's  hotel  in  time  for  breakfast. 
Arthur  showed  him  his  sister's  letter,  while  they 
lounged  over  their  coffee  and  toast,  which  was  served 
that  morning  in  his  room. 

"  You  had  better  run  down  with  me,  Phil,"  he  said. 
"There  used  to  be  capital  trout-streams  about  St. 
Mary's ;  and  when  you're  not  angling  for  the  silver- 
backs,  you  can  angle  for  that  golden  prize — the  Cuban 
heiress." 

"  All  right !"  said  Phil.  "  I  have  no  objection  to 
running  wild  for  a  couple  of  months  at  Maplewood ; 
and  I  do  want  to  look  at  this  bird  of  Paradise  they 
hav^e  caged  in  your  Maine  home.     When  do  you  go  ?" 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND. 


21 


amer.    Tell 
A.  S." 

to  half-past 
ittcrs.    He 

oat-pockct, 

If,  with  a 
3  changed 
nraptiired 
>  then,  it 

raptures 


"  At  noon,  in  the  12.50  train  ;  so  you  had  better  bo 
off  to  your  lodgings,  and  get  your  belongings  together 
betimes.  Fetch  your  cab  here  at  twelve.  I  have  an 
engagement  in  the  interval." 

"  Yes,  up-town,  in  Forty-third  street,  of  course  I 
Are  you  going  to  ask  Miss  Isabel  Yansell  the  moment- 
ous question  before  you  s'lrt?  The  gods  grant  she 
may  say,  Yes!  Some  faint  ray  of  hope  where  the 
heiress  is  concerned  may  glimmer  for  me  then." 

Mr.  Sutherland's  reply  to  this  was  to  take  his  cousin 
by  the  collar,  and  walk  him  out  of  the  room,  with  an 
imperative  order  to  be  off  and  mind  his  own  business, 
which  Doctor  Phil  did,  laughing  as  he  ran  down  the 
hotel-steps,  while  Mr.  Arthur  Sutherland  stood  before 
the  mirror  making  his  toilet. 

A  most  elaborate  toilet  indeed.  Arthur  Sutherland 
was  not  a  fop  or  a  dandy,  but  no  fop  or  dandy  that 
ever  lounged  in  the  sunshine  down  Broadway  could 
take  more  pains  brushing  hair  or  arranging  his  collar  or 
cravat  than  he,  this  morning.  He  had  every  reason  to 
be  satisfied  with  the  result;  the  glass  gave  back  a 
strikingly-handsome  face — a  complexion  of  almost 
womanly  fairness,  large  blue  Saxon  eyes,  and  profuse 
auburn  hair.  Yes,  he  looked  handsome,  and  he  knew 
it,  still  without  being  a  fop  or  a  dandy  ;  ana,  the  toilet 
completed,  he  ran  down  the  hotel-steps,  sprang  into  a 
passing  stage,  and  was  rattled  up-town.    His  destina- 


82 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND, 


\m\\ 


Hon  was,  as  his  cousin  surmised,  Forty-tliird  street ; 
and  ascending  the  marble  steps  of  one  of  its  long  row 
of  brown-stone  palaces,  he  rang  the  bell  and  was  ad- 
mitted by  a  maid-servant.  It  was  not  his  first  call 
evidently  ;  for  the  girl  knew  him,  and  returned  his  nod 
and  smile  of  recognition. 

"  Is  Miss  Yansell  at  home  ?"  Mr.  Sutherland 
asked. 

Yes,  Miss  Yansell  was  at  home  and  in  the  morning- 
room  ;  and  Susan,  as  she  spoke,  threw  open  the  door  of 
the  morning-room,  announced  Mr.  Sutherland,  and 
vanished.  Arthur  Sutherland  had  his  own  ideal  of 
women,  or  at  least  of  the  woman  he  wanted  to  marry. 
A  tall  and  slender  angel  robed  in  white  book-muslin, 
with  an  aureole  of  pale  gold  hair,  a  broad  white  brow, 
and  dove-like  eyes  of  blue;  a  beautiful  and  perfect 
creature,  excelling  in  all  womanly  virtue  and  sweet- 
ness ;  her  very  presence  breathing  purity  and  holiness, 
and  whose  heart  never  was  to  enshine  any  image  but 
his. 

**  A  lovely  being  scarcely  formed  or  molded, 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded," 

soft  of  voice,  deft  of  touch,  and  free  from  every  stain 
of  earthly  evil  and  passion :  a  woman  and  an  angel 
blended  in  one,  who  would  choose  him  out  from  all 
tlie  world,  and  love  him  and  cling  to  him  in  perfect 


ARTHUR    SUTHERLAND. 


28 


faith  and  tnist  until  death :  a  perfect  being,  perfect  in 
all  feminine  accomplishments,  whose  music  would  lull 
him  to  sleep  in  the  twilight,  and  whose  fair  Madonna- 
face  would  always  brighten  with  a  smile  when  he 
came,  and  sadden  with  tender  melancholy  when  he 
went  away.  This  was  the  sort  of  woman  he  wanted  to 
marry  ;  and  perhaps  he  thought  he  saw  his  ideal,  this 
bright  May  morning,  when  he  entered  the  morning- 
room  of  the  Yansell  mansion. 

Isabel  Vansell  stood  by  the  open  window,  the 
breeze  lifting  her  pale  tinseled  hair,  ai  fluttering  the 
azure  ribbons  at  her  waist,  and  the  flowing  skirt  of  her 
white  muslin  dress.  She  stood  by  the  open  window, 
among  pots  of  tall  rose-geraniums,  whose  perfume 
scented  the  air,  placing  bits  of  sugar  between  the  gilded 
bars  of  a  canary-bird's  cage,  with  deft  white  taper 
fingers.  Kobed  in  white,  crowned  with  that  aureole 
of  golden  ringlets,  with  as  fair  and  sweet  a  face  as  ever 
the  sun  shone  on — surely,  in  this  graceful  girl,  whose 
blue  eyes  drooped,  and  whose  pink  clieeks  deepened 
as  she  gave  him  her  band,  Arthur  Sutherland  had  found 
his  ideal.  Long  after,  when  the  dark  and  stormy  and 
tragical  days  that  intervened  were  past,  that  picture 
came  back  to  him  witb  a  remorseful  pang — this  fair  and 
graceful  girl,  with  the  sunlight  making  a  halo  round 
her  drooping  head. 

Mr.   Sutherland  sat  down  by  the  open    window 


'^- 


24 


ARTHUR    8UTJERLAND. 


w^ 


among  the  rosc-geraniums  and  caTiary-birds,  and  talked 
to  Miss  Yanscll  in  very  common-placo  fasliion,  indeed. 
He  admired  her  very  much ;  she  was  his  ideal,  his 
perfect  woman,  and  he  loved  her,  or  thought  ho  did  ; 
but  for  all  that  he  talked  common-places,  and  never  let 
drop  one  tender  or  admiring  word.  Isabel  Vansell  sat 
opposite  him,  with  the  breeze  still  stirring  the  lovely 
pale-gold  hair,  and  the  sunlight  illuminating  her  deli- 
cate face. 

They  talked  of  the  old  themes,  they  went  over  the 
old  beaten  ground — Miss  Yansell  had  no  striking  or 
original  ideas  on  any  subject,  but  she  talked  on  all  with 
charming  feminine  grace.  She  was  not  voluble,  and 
she  was  just  a  thought  shy ;  but  Mr.  Sutherland  ad- 
mired her  none  the  less  for  that.  Yet  still  he  never 
betrayed  that  admiration  by  one  word,  or  look,  or  tone ; 
and  it  was  only  when  he  arose  to  go  that  he  alluded  to 
his  departure  at  all. 

"  It  must  be  *  good-bye '  this  time,  and  not 
*  good  morning ',"  he  said,  smiling ;  "  I  leave  town 
at  noon." 

"  Leave  town !"  the  young  Ir.dy  echoed,  faintly,  the 
rose-tint  fading  out  of  her  sweet  face ;  "  I  did  not 
know — I  thought — " 

Arthur  Sutherland  saw  and  interpreted  the  signs, 
with  a  little  thrill  of  delight. 

"  I  shall  not  be  absent  long,"  he  said.     "  N'ew  York 


Ji 


AIlTUUn    aUTnEHLAND. 


96 


Jias  iiTcsistihlo  charms  for  mo  just  now.  I  ahull  only 
run  down  to  Miiplewood  to  see  my  mother  imd  sister, 
and  return." 

The  color  came  back  to  Miss  Vansell's  cheeks,  and 
she  held  out  her  lily-leaf  hand  with  a  smile. 

"  Boil  voyage^'*  sho  said ;  "  after  three  years' 
absence,  I  wonder  you  could  linger  even  a  week  id 
Kew  York." 

"  Home  has  its  charms,  and  so  has  New  York  ;  very 
powerful  ones  just  at  present.  Shall  I  find  you  in  the 
city  when  I  return?"  ho  asked,  holding  the  hand  she 
had  given  him  a  moment. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Vansell,  blushing  beautifully  ; 
"  good-bye !" 

The  momentous  question,  to  which  Phil  had 
alluded,  rose  to  the  young  man's  lips,  but  he  checked 
himself. 

"  Time  enough  when  I  return,"  ho  thought ;  "  it 
will  be  sweet  to  know  it  is  for  that  I  shall  return." 

So  the   words  were  not  spoken  that  would  have 

sealed  his  fate — that  would  have  changed  the  whole 

current  of  his  life.     Perhaps  there  is  a  Providence  in 

these  things ;  and  all  tlie  fever  of  love,  and  doubt,  and 

anguish,  and  misery  was  to  be  undergone,  to  make 

him  a  better  man,  to  try  him  as  gold  is  tried  in  the 

crucil)le. 

Once  he  looked  back,  as  he  descended  the  stone 
2 


llj 


i:i 


I 


>  I 

III 
hi 


I  nil 


20 


ARTUUIi    SUTUERLAND. 


steps,  at  tliG  window  of  the  morning-room.  Hia 
ideal  was  there  still,  among  the  rose -geraniums  and 
the  birds,  with  the  fair  Madonna-face,  and  tender 
blue  eyes. 


j  It 


EULALIE. 


Vt 


CHAPTER  II. 


EULALIE. 


T^  the  purple  twilight  of  the  next  evening 
the  two  young  men  drove,   in  a  buggy 
hired  at  the  railway-station,  through  tho 
one  long,  straggling  street  of  the   village 
of  St.  Mary's. 

I  wonder  if  any  one  who  reads  this  over  was  in  St 
Mary's ;  if  not,  I  advise  them  to  visit  it  as  speedily  as 
possible.  That  beautiful  little  city,  Portland,  is  very 
near  it ;  and  of  all  delightful  villages  on  the  rock- 
bound  coast  of  Maine,  I  do  not  think  there  is  one  more 
delightful  than  St.  Mary's.  You  walk  down  its  chiet 
street^  between  two  rows  of  dear  little  white  cottages, 
with  green  window-shutters  and  red  doors,  their  snowy 
fronts  all  overrun  with  sweetbrier,  and  their  windows 
looking  into  the  Drettiest  of  flower-gardens.  You  walk 
down  the  long  straggling  street  until  it  ceases  to  be  a 
street,  and  you  find  yourself  on  a  long  white  sandy 
beach,  with  the  broad  blue  Atlantic  spreading  out  be- 
fore you,  and  melting  m  the  far-off  purple  horizon 
into  the  low  blue  sky.     You  see  winding  paths  leading 


28 


EULALIE. 


here  and  tliere  to  beautiful  villas  and  stately  mansions, 
embosomed  in  towering  trees  ;  and  still  further  away, 
your  view  is  bounded  by  black  piny  woods  and  the 
misty  outline  of  hills.  The  salt  breath  of  old  ocean 
is  in  your  lungs,  its  saline  freshness  in  your  face,  its 
ceaseless  roar  in  your  ears,  bat  there  is  little  of  the 
strife  and  tumult  and  bustle  and  uproar  of  the  big 
restless  world  in  St.  Mary's. 

In  the  purplish  gloom  of  the  May-twilight,  Arthur 
Sutherland  and  his  cousin  drove  slowly  along  the 
pleasant  country-roads,  with  swelling  meadows  and  dark 
woods,  and  peaceful-looking  farmhouse's  and  stately 
homesteads  on  either  hand.  It  was  all  very  familiar 
and  very  dear  to  them  both ;  they  had  spent  their  bo}'- 
hood  together  here  before  they  had  gone  forth  to  fight 
the  battle  of  life ;  and  every  green  lane  and  upland 
meadow  and  forest  arcade  was  as  well  known  to  tliem 
as  their  own  faces  in  the  glass.  They  drove  along  in 
the  misty  twilight,  with  the  scented  country  air  blow- 
ing in  their  faces,  very  silently — thinking  of  these 
bygone  days,  perhaps,  and  wondering  if  they  had 
changed  as  little  as  the  landscape  in  these  intervening 
years.  The  twilight  was  deepening  into  starlit  night  as 
the  home  of  Arthur  Sutherland  came  in  view.  A  pair 
of  tall  iron  gates  stood  wide ;  and  you  saw  a  spacious 
carriage-drive,  winding  away  between  two  rows  of 
giant  maples  and  hemlocks,  while  miniature  forests  of 


EULALIE. 


29 


these  same  noble  trees  spread   tliemoelves  away   on 
I  cither  hand.     Embosomed   among  these  glorious  old 
ti-ecs  stood  a  long,  low,  old-fashioned  gray  stone  house, 
older  than  the  Revolution,  and  built  far  more  with  a  view 
to  strength  and  durability  than  beauty  or  chastcncss  of 
architecture.     There   were   modern   additions  and  re. 
I  pairs ;  but   the   old   gray  stone   house,    with   its  high 
narrow  windows  and  stacks  of   chimneys  and  peaked 
gables  stood   much   as  it   had   stood   when   the   first 
Sutherland  who  emigrated  from  England  to  the  colonies 
built  it,  over  one  hundred  years  before.     The  Sutlier- 
lands  were   proud   of    their   old    mansion — very   old 
as  age  goes  in  America — and  only  altered  it  to  make 
unavoidable   repairs.      The    long    drawing-room    and 
dining-room  windows  opened  upon  a  sweep  of  grassy 
lawn,  sloping  down  to  the  groves  of  maple  and  elm  and 
hemlock   hke   a  green  velvet  carpet ;    a  piazza  run 
around  the  second  story,  in  which  the   tall   windows 
opened  in  the  same  fashion.     Stables  and  out-houses, 
also  of  gray  stone,  were  in  the  rear  of  the  building,  and 
beyond  them   stretched  a   delightful   orchard,  where 
apple  and  plum,  and  pear  and  cherry-trees  scented  the 
air  with  their  blossoms   in   spring,    and   strewed   the 
sward  with  their  delicious  ripe   fruit  in  autumn.     To 
the  right,  rolled  away  swelling  meadows,  ending  where 
the  pine  woods  began  ;  to  the  left,  another  long  garden, 
all  a«jlow  in  summer  with  rose-trees,  and  where  littlo 


i   '! 


li      i 


r 


80 


EULALIE. 


"wildernesses  of  lilacs  and  laburnums,  and  cedar  and 
tamarack,  sloped  down  to  the  sea  ;  a  glorious  old  garden, 
in  whose  green  arcades  and  leafy  aisles  delicious  silence 
and  coolness  ever  reigned,  wliere  the  singing  of  numbei 
less  birds,  the  wash  of  the  ceasf.less  waves,  or  the  sway- 
ing of  the  boughs  in  the  breeze,  made  music  all  day 
long ;  a  di'eamy,  delightful  old  garden,  where  every- 
thing grew  or  did  not  grow,  as  best  pleased  itself,  end- 
ing in  a  grassy  terrace,  with  a  flight  of  stone  steps 
leading  down  to  the  beach  below.  A  magnificent 
place  altogether,  this  ancestral  home  of  the  Suther- 
land's. There  was  not  a  tree  or  a  stone  inside  the  iron 
gates  that  was  not  dear  to  them,  and  of  which  they 
were  not  proud.  ^ 

The  round  May  moon  was  sailing  over  the  dim,  dark 
hill-tops  as  the  two  young  men  drove  round  to  the 
stables  and  left  their  vehicle  there.  Two  long  lines  of 
light  glanced  across  the  front  of  the  old  stone  house ; 
and.  in  the  blue,  misty  moonlight,  it  cast  quaint  and 
weird  shadows  athwart  the  turfy  lawn. 

Arthur  Sutlierland  lifted  the  ponderous  iron  knocker 
and  roused  the  silent  echoes  by  a  loud  alarm.  The 
man-servant  who  opened  the  door  was  a  stranger  to  the 
returned  heir,  and  stared  at  him,  and  informed  him  Mrs. 
Sutherland  was  engaged,  and  that  there  was  a  dinner 
party  at  the  house. 

"  Never    mind,"    said  Arthur,    "  I  daro    say  she 


EULALIE. 


n 


ill  see  me.  Just  tell  her  two  gentlemen  await 
ler  presence  in  the  library,  mj  good  f ellow  1  This 
[way,  Phil !" 

He  pushed  past  the  man  as  he  spoke,  and  opened  a 
door  to  the  left,  with  an  air  of  one  all  at  home.  A 
shaded  lamp  burned  on  a  round  table  in  the  center  of 
the  floor — they  had  no  gas  at  Maplewood — and,  by  its 
subdued  light,  you  saw  a  noble  room,  lined  all  round 
the  four  walls  with  books  from  floor  to  ceiling.  A 
portrait  of  George  "Washington  hung  above  the  low 
black  marble  mantel ;  albeit  traditions  averred  the 
Sutherlands  had  rather  snubbed  that  hero  in  his  life- 
time. Arm-chairs,  cushioned  in  green  billiard-cloth,  to 
match  the  green  carpet  and  curtains,  stood  around  ;  and 
just  as  the  young  gentlemen  subsided  into  one  apiece, 
a  mighty  rustling  of  silks  resounded  without,  the  door 
opened,  and  a  lady  entered ;  a  lady,  fair  and  proud, 
and  stately  and  handsome,  and  still  youthful-looking, 
with  fair,  unsilvered  hair,  delicate,  regular  features,  thin 
lips,  and  large  light  blue  eyes ;  a  lady  who  would  have 
told  you  she  was  five-and-forty,  but  who  looked  ten 
years  younger,  elegantly  dressed,  and  redolent  of  pa- 
tcliouly.  Arthur  Sutherland  rose  up,  the  lady  looked 
at  him,  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  ran  forward,  and  clasped 
him  in  her  arms. 

"  My  darling  boy  !  My  dearest  Arthur !  and  have 
you  returned  at  last  I" 


^rl  ^1 


IL 


82 


EULALIB. 


"  At  last,  my  dear  mother,  and  glad  to  be  home 


again 


5J 


They  were  very  much  alike,  the  mother  and  son ; 
the  same  tall  statnre,  the  same  blond  type  of  Saxon 
beauty  ;  but  the  proud  and  somewhat  severe  look  in 
the  mother's  blue  eyes  was  a  warm  and  more  genial 
light  in  the  son's.  She  held  him  off  at  arm's  length, 
and  looked  at  him  with  loving  and  delighted  eye. 

"  You  have  grown  taller  and  stouter,  I  think,"  she 
said,  while  her  son  stood,  laugliingly,  to  be  inspected. 
"Your  three  years'  travel  has  decidedly  improved 
you  !  My  dearest  boy,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  rejoiced 
I  am  to  have  you  home  once  more !" 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  mother  mine  !  But  have  you 
no  welcome  for  this  other  stranger  ?" 

The  lady  turned  round  quickly.  She  had  quite 
overlooked  him  in  the  happiness  of  seeing  her  boy. 

Doctor  Sutherland  came  forward  with  a  profound 
bow. 

"'  Philip  Sutherland !"  she  said,  smilingly,  holding 
out  her  ringed,  white  hand.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you  back  again  at  IMaplewood  !" 

Mr.  Philip  Sutherland  expressed  his  thanks,  and 
his  pleasure  at  seeing  her  looking  as  young  and  hand- 
some as  ever. 

"  Pshiiw !"  said  the  lady,  smiling  graciously,  how- 
ever.    "  Have  you  not  ceased  that  old  habit  of  yours, 


EULALIE. 


38 


[of  talking  nonsense,  Philip?     Have  you  dined,  Ar- 
thur ?" 

"  Yes,  mother.     We  dined  in  Portland.     You  are 
havitig  a  dinner-party,  they  tell  me  ?" 

"  Only  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Madison  and  the  Honor- 
able Mr.  Long  and  his  daughter.  Will  you  go  up  to 
your  room  and  dress,  and  join  us  in  the  drawing-room  ? 
The  gentlemen  have  not  left  their  wine  yet.  You  will 
find  your  room  in  as  good  order  as  if  you  had  been  ab- 
sent three  days  instead  of  three  years ;  and,  Philip,  you 
know  your  own  old  chamber." 

"  Up  in  the  cock-loft !"  muttered  Philip,  sotto  voce. 
"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  know." 

*'  But  I  should  like  to  see  Augusta  first,  mother. 
Will  3'ou  send  her  word  ?" 

"  I'm  here  !"  screamed  a  shrill  voice  ;  and  the  door 
was  flung  open,  and  a  young  lady  bounced  into  the 
room  and  bounced  up  to  the  speaker,  flinging  her  arms 
round  his  neciv,  kissing  him  with  sounding  smacks:  a 
young  lady,  inclined  to  emljoiipoint^  fair-haired  and  blue- 
eyed — as  it  was  the  nature  of  the  Sutherlands  to  be ; 
but,  unlike  tlie  Sutherlands,  with  a  snub  nose.  Yos, 
tliis  yoinii;'  Lidv  was  a  Sutlierland  ;  but  i^lie  had  a  snub- 
nose  and  a  low  foreliead,  and  ciieeks  like  a  milkmaid  in 
color  and  plumpness ;  but,  for  all  that,  a  very  nice- 
looking  and  a  very  nice  girl,  indeed. 

"Now,  there,   Augusta,  don't  strangle  me,"  said 
2* 


lit  I 


iili  •«! 


!    I 


!  n 


i 


'  1 


84 


EULALIE. 


Miss  Augusta's  brother,  when  ho  thought  he  had  been 
sufiicicntly  kissed.  "  Stand  off  and  let  me  look  at  you. 
IIow  fat  you  have  grown  I" 

"  Oil,  have  I  ?"  exclaimed  Miss  Sutherland,  with 
sudden  asperity.  "  I  wonder  you  let  me  in  the  room 
before  you  told  me  that.  Phil  Sutherland,  how  do 
do  you  do  ?  I  knew  you  were  dying  to  be  asked  down 
here,  and  so  I  asked  you !" 

Doctor  Sutherland  murmured  his  thanks  in  a  sub- 
dued tone — he  was  always  subdued  in  the  presence  of 
Uiis  outspoken  cousin ;  but  the  young  lady  paid  no 
attention  to  him. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  go  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
mamma  ?  That  horrid  old  Colonel  Madison  will  drink 
so  much  port  wine,  and  come  in  and  bore  us  all  to  death 
if  you're  not  there  to  listen  to  him.  I  hate  those 
stupid  stories  about  Mexico,  and  all  the  valiant  deeds 
he  did  there,  and  so  does  Enlalie ;  and  I  gape  in  his 
face,  and  he  goes  off  and  tells  liis  wife  I'm  the  most 
ill-bred  girl  he  ever  met.  I  know  he  tells  her  that, 
and  I  hate  him !" 

Miss  Sutherland  bounced  out  of  the  room  as  she 
had  bounced  into  it,  and  IV^rs.  Sutherland  turned  to 
follow  her. 

"  Make  your  toilets,  young  gentlemen,  and  show 
yourselves  in  the  drawing-room  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Your  luggage  is  upstairs  by  this  time,  no  doubt." 


/"'J 


EULALIE. 


8ft 


She  sailed  out  of  the  room ;  and  the  two  young 
men  ran  up-staii-s  to  their  respective  apartments — Mr. 
Philip  Sutherland's  being  ratlier  in  the  attic  tlian 
otherwise. 

"  My  old  roost  looks  much  the  same  as  ever,"  said 
the  young  doctor,  glancing  around.  "I  wonder  if 
any  one  has  courted  the  balmy  up  here  since  1  left,  or 
if  it  has  been  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Philip  Suther- 
land !" 

The  young  physician  made  a  ratlier  careful  toilet 
with  the  memory  of  the  Creole  heiress  in  his  mind, 
and  descended  presently  in  all  the  purple  and  fine  linen 
proper  for  young  men  to   wear,  and   tapped   at  his 
cousin's  door. 

"  Are  you  ready,  old  boy  ?"  he  said,  opening  it  and 
looking  in.  "  Ah  I  I  see  you  are,  and  most  elaborately 
got  up !    Now,  then,  for  our  dark-eyed  heiress !" 

The  long  drawing-room  was  all  ablaze  with  light 
from  pendant  chandeliers  when  they  entered;  and 
Augusta  Sutherland,  sitting  at  a  grand  piano,  was  sing- 
ing a  Swiss  song,  that  seemed  more  tra-la-las  than  any- 
thing else.  The  gentlemen  had  come  in  from  the 
dining-room,  it  seemed ;  for  Mrs.  Sutherland,  lying 
back  in  a  fauteuil,  a  la  princesse,  was  listening  with 
languid  politeness  to  a  stout  military  gentleman  with  a 
l)ig  bald  head,  while  she  watched  the  door.  A  smiling 
motion  brought  the  young  men  to  her  velvet  throne ; 


30 


KULAUK 


(Itl 


trodi 


duo  form  to  Colonel  and 


and  tiioy  were  nitroducod  in 

Mrs.  Mndison — the  latter  a  pale-faced,  insipid-looking 

little  woman,  with  nothing  at  all  to  say. 

"  Excuse  nie  one  nu)inent,  colonel,"  said  Mrs. 
Sutherland,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  "while  1  present 
my  sou  to  Mi*,  and  Miss  Hohan,  neitlfcr  of  whom  he 
has  seen  yet.  I  must  hear  the  end  of  that  Mexican 
adventure." 


She  took  her  son's  arm,  and  they  walked  the  length 
of  the  apartment  together,  while  Philip  was  taken  by 
the  button-hole,  captive  to  the  Mexican  officer,  sorely 
against  his  M'ill. 

In  the  shadowy  recess  of  a  deep,  old-fashioned  bay- 
window  Arthur  saw  two  people  sitting.  A  tall,  and 
stately,  and  handsome  old  man,  with  hair  as  white  as 
silver,  and  a  face  deeply  furrowed  by  time  or  trouble. 
The  other,  a  tall  and  decidedly  plain-looking  girl,  very 
stylishly  dressed.  There  was  a  little  low  sofa  between 
them  that  seemed  only  a  mass  of  scarlet  drapery  and 
cushions,  in  the  deep  shadow  cast  by  the  heavy  amber- 
colored  curtains  of  the  bay-window. 

"Is  it  ])Ossible,"  thought  Arthur,  "that  this  young 
lady,  with  the  small  eyes  and  wide  mouth,  is  the  beauty 
1  have  heard  so  much  of  ?  They  must  look  through  a 
golden  mist,  indeed,  who  can  discover  loveliness  in  that 
face." 

The  young  lady's  name  was  pr)nounced  oven  while 


EULALIE. 


37 


he  was  thinking  this  ;  but  the  name  was  Miss  Lonij:, 
and  lie  rcniomberod  what  his  mother  liad  told  luni  of 
[\n  Tlunorable  Mr.  Loiig  and  his  daughter  being  there. 
The  stately  old  gentleman  was  Mr.  Kohan,  of  Eden 
Lawn,  Cul)a,  who  bowed  rather  stilily  as  the  son  of 
his  hostess  was  introduced. 

"Miss  llohan,  allow  me  to  present  my  son  ;  Arthur, 
Miss  Eulalie  Rohan." 

The  mass  of  scarlet  drapery  w^as  pushed  aside  by  a 
little  hand  all  blazing  w^ith  rich  rings,  and  from  the 
v\vA(V^  of  the  yellow  curtains  a  recumbent  ligure  rose, 
and  a  sweet  voice,  the  sweetest  he  ever  had  heard, 
s])oke  to  him.  There  had  been  a  greenish  gleam  as  she 
lifted  her  head,  and  Arthur  saw  that  she  "wore  a  circlet 
of  emeralds  in  her  dense  bLack  hair  ;  but  somehow  he 
had  thought  of  the  fatal  greenish  glitter  of  a  serpent's 
head,  and  he  could  not  get  rid  of  the  idea.  She  rose 
up  from  the  shadowy  background,  among  the  glowing 
red  of  tlie  cushions,  a  scarlet  shawl  thrown  lightly  o^xr 
her  shoulders  ;  and  she  looked  like  a  picture  starring 
vividly  out  from  black  gloom.  Arthur  Sutherland  saw 
a  face  unlike  any  face  he  had  ever  seen  before  ;  great 
bla':'k  eyes  of  dusky  splendor,  lighting  up  gloriously  a 
face  of  creamy  pallor,  and  flashing  white  teeth,  show- 
iwil  tlirouMi  vivid  crimson  lins.  lie  could  not  tell 
wliether  she  was  beautiful  or  not ;  he  V\'as  dazzled  by 
the  llashing  splendor  of  those  eyes  and  teeth,  set  in  the 


38 


EULAHB. 


^^ 


shadow  of  tliut  rrvcn-black  luiir.  In  far-oil  eastern 
lands  lie  had  seen  such  darkly-splendid  faces,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  for  a  moment  that  ho  was  back  In  the 
land  of  the  date  and  the  ])alm-tree,  nnder  a  hiazin*;, 
troi)ical  sun  ;  but  how  strangely  out  of  j)la('e  tliii^  glow- 
ing Assyrian's  beauty  seemed  in  his  staid  New  England 
home  I 

She  had  been  resting  lazily  down  among  the  crim- 
son-velvet cushions,  talking  in  her  sweet,  foreign  voice 
to  lier  grandfather  and  Miss  Long;  but  she  sat  up  now, 
lotting  the  scarlet  shawl  trail  off  her  excpiisite  shoulders. 
As  she  moved  her  little  black  head,  all  running  <^ver 
with  curls  that  hung  below  her  taper  waist,  the  green- 
ish glitter  of  the  emeralds  flashed  and  gleamed  with  a 
pale,  sinister  luster.  Arthur  Sutherland  hated  the 
gems.  He  could  not  get  rid  of  the  thought  of  the  ser- 
pent while  this  pale,  sickly  flashing  met  ln,„  eye.  IIo 
thought  of  Isabel  Yansell,  who  wore  Orient  pearls  as 
pale  and  pure  as  herself ;  and  thought  how  fortunate  it 
was  for  hun  that  he  had  seen  and  loved  her  before  he 
met  this  black-eyed  houri,  whose  darkly-gorgeous  beauty 
might  have  bewitched  him  else.  Ho  was  safe  now, 
with  that  counter-charm,  his  fair-haired  ideal;  and, 
being  safe,  it  was  only  polite  to  sit  down  and  talk  to 
his  mother's  guests ;  so  he  took  a  vacant  chair  near  the 
low  Bofa,  and  began  to  converse. 

Mr.  Arthur  Sutherland,  among  his  other  accomplish- 


EVLAUE. 


89 


incuts,  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  "  making  conver- 
Bation."  lie  and  Miss  Long,  who  was  rather  a  bhic- 
stocking  and  very  strong-minded,  had  a  discussion  on 
the  dil^erence  of  society  in  the  Old  AVurld  and  the 
Kew.  This  led  him  to  speak  of  his  travels,  and  ho 
grew  eloquent  over  descri[)tions  of  Florence  the  beauti- 
ful, and  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  Eternal  City.  He 
liad  heard  the  wonderful  "  Miserere  "  in  St.  Peter's ; 
he  had  made  the  ascent  of  Mt.  Blanc ;  lie  had  seen  the 
carnival  in  Venice,  and  he  had  performed  the  Via 
Crucis  in  the  Holy  Land.  The  great,  solenm,  black 
eyes  of  Eulalie  Rohan  fixed  themselves  on  his  face,  as 
she  listened  in  breathless,  childlike  delight ;  and  per- 
haps the  consciousness  of  this  made  him  yet  more  elo- 
quent, though  he  said  very  little  to  her.  He  had  es- 
sayed some  remarks  to  her  grandfather,  and  received 
such  brief  replies  as  to  nip  the  attempted  conversation 
in  the  bud.  But  Eulalie  could  talk  a^  well  as  listen  ; 
and  presently,  when  he  asked  her  something  about 
Cuba,  the  glorious  black  eyes  lit  up,  the  dark  Creole 
face  kindled  with  yet  more  vivid  beauty,  and  she  talked 
of  her  home  under  the  orange  and  citron  groves,  until 
he  could  feel  the  scented  breath  of  the  Cuban  breeze 
blowing  in  his  face,  and  see  the  magnolia  swaying  over 
his  liead.  She  talked  watli  the  most  charming  infantile 
grace  in  the  world,  in  that  sweet,  foreign-accented  voice 
of  hei^s — the  small  ringed  hands  fluttering  in  and  out 


40 


EULALIE, 


the  crimson  drapery,  and  the  serpent  gleam  of  the 
emeralds  ever  displeasing  tlic  yoimg  man's  eyes.  She 
was  not  eloquent  or  original ;  she  was  only  very  sweet 
and  charming,  and  innocently  childlike — not  a  bit 
sti'ong-minded,  like  Miss  Long — not  at  all  given  to 
bounce,  like  Miss  Augusta  Sutherland — and  lier  sweet- 
ness was  something  entirely  different  from  that  of  his 
pale,  golden-haii'ed  saint  and  ideal,  Isabel  Yansell — this 
dark  divinity,  who  was  all  jets  and  sparkles,  all  scarlet 
drapery  and  amber  back-ground,  and  big  black  eyes, 
and  emeralds  and  diamond  rings.  lie  could  see,  while 
he  sat  gravely  listening  to  her  sweet,  childish  voice, 
Philip  Sutherland,  staring  over  at  her  with  open-eyed 
admiration,  and  smiled  to  himself. 

"  Poor  Phil !"  he  thought ;  "  he  is  just  the  sort  of 
fellow  to  be  caught  by  this  tropical  butterfly,  this  gor- 
geous little  flower  of  the  sun.  Those  big,  velvet-black 
eyes  of  hers,  ancl  this  silvery  prattle,  so  babyish  and  so 
sweet,  and  that  feathery  cloud  of  purple-black  hair  is 
just  the  sort  of  thing  to  fascinate  him.  Now  I  should 
like  a  woman,  and  this  is  only  a  lisping  baby — a  very 
charming  baby,  no  doul)t,  to  people  who  admire  olive 
s^:ins,  and  pretty  little  tattle,  but  not  at  all  to  my  taste." 

Miss  Rohan  had  one  attentive  auditor  to  evervthinc: 
bhesaid,  besides  Mr.  Sutherland,  and  that  washer  grand- 
father. Arthur  had  been  struck  from  the  very  first  by 
the  old  maivs  manner  toward  his  child ;  it  was  such  a 


EULALIE. 


41 


.  of  tho 
ps.  She 
y  sweet 
t  a  bit 
IWQW  to 
r  sweet- 
;  of  his 
11— tliis 
scarlet 
ck  eyes, 
e,  while 
ih  voice, 
>eii-eyed 

5  sort  of 
his  gor- 
et-black 
1  and  feo 

hair  is 
[  should 
-a  very 
'0  olive 
'  taste." 
rythiiii^ 
r  cfraiul- 
first  by 

such  a 


y  m 


mixture  of  yearning,  mournful  tenderness,  watchful 
care.  He  watched  her  every  movement ;  he  listened  to 
every  word  that  was  said  to  her,  and  every  word  she  • 
uttered  in  reply.  lie  seemed  to  have  eyes  and  ears  only 
for  her,  and  his  gaze  had  something  of  unspeakable 
sadness  in  it.  The  prevailing  expression  of  his  whole 
face,  indeed,  was  one  of  settled  melancholy ;  that  fur- 
rowed countenance  was  a  history  of  deepest  trouble — 
past,  perhaps,  but  whose  memory  darkened  his  whole 
life. 

Arthur  Sutherland  said  all  this,  and  wondered  what 
that  trouble  could  be,  and  what  connection  it  could  have 
with  this  bright  young  creatin-e,  who  seemed  as  inno- 
cently and  childishly  happy  as  if  she  were  only  a  dozen 
instead  of  eighteen  years  old.  Whatever  it  was,  its 
blight  had  •not  fallen  c.i  her — her  langh  was  rnusic 
itself,  her  silvery  prattle  gay  as  a  skylark's  song. 

"  Perhaps  he  loves  her  so  well,  and  fears  to  lose  her 
so  much,"  bethought,  "that  the  love  and  fear  bring 
that  look  of  unspeakable  trouble  with  which  he  seems 
perpetually  to  regard  her.  Grandfathers  have  idolized 
before  now  granddaughters  far  less  beautiful  and  '  hai'ni- 
ing  tlian  this  dark-eyed  siren." 

The  little  party  gathered  in  the  recess  of  the  bay- 
window  so  comfortably  was  broken  up  at  this  moment. 
The  Honorable  Mr.  Long,  who  had  been  turning  Miss 
Sutherland's  nnisic  wdiilc  she  sang,  came  forward  now 


If      I 

l>l 


II 


43 


EULALIE. 


with  that  young  lady  on  his  arm,  and  begged  Miss  Rohan 
to  favor  them  witli  some  music.  Eulahc  arc  o  pi'omptly, 
,  and  Artlmr  saw  for  tlic  first  time  what  a  tiny  creature 
she  was,  with  a  waist  he  could  have  spanned  like  a 
doll's,  and  her  flossy  black  ringlets  hanging  far  below 
it.  There  was  a  general  move.  Mr.  and  Miss  Long 
and  Mr.  Rohan  all  adjourned  to  the  other  end  of  the 
drawing-room,  but  Arthm*  Sutherland  remained,  and 
his  sister  drojDped  down  on  the  sofa  Miss  Rohan  had 
just  vacated. 

"  There  they  go  !"  was  her  resentful  cry ;  "  the  Longs 
and  the  grandfather,  and  now  mamma  and  that  stupid 
Mexican  colonel  and  his  automaton  wife,  and  Phil 
Sutherland,  all  over  to  the  piano  to  hear  the  millionaire's 
heiress  sing.  !N"obody  paid  any  attention  to  my  sing- 
ing, of  course  ;  even  Mr.  Long  was  gaping  behind  the 
music  when  he  thought  I  was  not  looking.  I  wonder, 
if  I  were  a  millionaire's  granddaughter,  if  people  would 
flock  round  to  listen  to  every  word  I  let  fall,  as  if  they 
were  pearls  and  diamonds,  or  would  my  snub  nose 
and  one  hundred  and  forty-tv/o  pounds  avoirdupois 
set  them  gaping  when  I  open  my  mouth,  as  it  does 
now." 

Arthur  Sutherland  smiled  at  his  sister's  tirade,  but 
did  not  reply.  He  was  listening  to  the  grand,  grateful 
notes  of  the  instrument,  swept  by  a  master  hand,  and 
a  rich  contralto  voice  singing  some  mournful  Spanish 


EULALIE. 


43 


ballad.  The  voice  was  full  of  pathos,  the  song  sad  aa 
a  funeral  dirge,  with  a  wild,  melancholy  refrain. 

"  There !"  burst  ont  Augusta,  "  that's  the  sort 
of  dismalness  she  sings  all  the  time.  It  makes  my  flesh 
creep  sometimes  to  hear  her,  and  people  go  mad  over 
her  singing  and  playing.  Nobody  ever  sees  anything 
in  mine,  and  I'm  sure  I  play  the  hardest  galops  and 
polkas  going ;  but  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  big  black  eyes 
like  two  full  moons,  and  a  grandfather  with  several 
millions  of  money,  it  would  be  dijQPerent !" 

"How  very  fond  of  her  he  seems  to  be!"  said 
Arthur,  looking  over  at  the  piano,  where  Mr.  Rohan 
stood  with  his  eyes  on  his  granddaughter's  face  while 
she  sang. 

"Who?  Her  grandfather?  Grood  gracious  me!'* 
cried  Miss  Sutherland  shrilly,  "  there  never  was  any- 
thing like  it!  They  talk  about  people  adoring  the 
ground  other  people  walk  on,  but  if  they  only  could  know 
how  that  Mr.  Kohan  admires  Eulalie,  they  might  talk. 
Of  course  it  would  be  sinful  idolatry  in  anybody  but 
a  ^nillionaire ;  and  I  know  if  I  was  Eulalie  I  sliould  not 
put  up  with  it.  He  watches  her  as  a  cat  watches  a 
mouse ;  he  won't  let  her  go  to  parties ;  he  won't  let  her 
go  outside  the  door,  unless  he  is  tagging  at  her  apron- 
strings.  He  wouldn't  let  her  speak  to  a  young  man, 
or  let  one  look  at  her,  if  he  could  help  it ;  and  he 
would  like  to  shut  her  up  in  a  box  and  carry  her  round 


w 


'i4 


EUZALIE. 


4 


I 


!     i 


with  him,  like  that  princess  in  tho  Arahian  Kights. 
He  wanted  lier  to  take  the  veil  when  she  was  in  the 
convent." 

"  "Wanted  lier  to  take  the  veil,"  echoed  her  brother, 
amazed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Augusta,  "  and  my  opinion  is  there  is 
something  wrong  in  the  business,  and  Eulah'e  doesn't 
know  what.  Slie  says  he  has  been  like  that  ever  since 
she  can  remember,  loving  her  to  absurdity,  but  always 
as  if  he  pitied  her  or  was  afraid  of  her,  or  something. 
lie  is  a  very  nice  old  man,  but  I  think  he  is  a  mono- 
maniac where  his  granddaughter  is  concerned — or  would 
be,  if  he  was  not  a  millionaire." 

A  monomaniac !  The  words  spoken  so  lightly  struck 
strangely  and  harshly  on  the  ear  of  Arthur  Sutherland. 
He  had  heard  of  such  things !  And  was  this  the  secret 
of  those  loving,  anxious,  watchful  looks?  Did  he 
know  he  was  mad,  and  did  he  fear  the  same  fate  for  his 
beautiful  child  ?  Was  it  hereditary  in  the  family,  yet 
a  secret  from  her  ? 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  his  sister,  with  her  round,  blme 
eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  "  I  should  like  to  know  what 
that  solemn  countenance  means  !  If  you  were  making 
yuur  will  you  couldn't  look  more  dismal;  and  as  you 
seem  to  have  lost  your  tongue  since  Eulalie  went  away, 
I'll  go  and  fetch  liei  back  to  you." 

Off  went  Miss  Augusta.     Arthur  shook  away  the 


EULALIE. 


45 


creeping  feeling  that  had  come  over  him,  with  a  slight 
shudder.  • 

"  What  an  idiot  I  am !"  he  thought,  "  weaving  such 
a  web  of  horrible,  improbable  fancies  out  of  a  casual 
word  let  drop  by  my  chattering  sister.  The  old  man 
dotes  on  his  grandchild,  and  that  ceaseless  care  and 
mournful  tenderness  of  look  and  voice  is  only  the  effect 
of  excessive  love,  and  fear  of  losing  her." 

Half  an  hour  after  the  dinner-party  broke  up,  and 
the  guests  went  home.  Miss  Rohan  bade  them  good- 
niglit,  with  one  of  her  brilliant  smiles,  and  went  up 
stairs  with  Angnsta.  As  Arthur  followed,  and  was 
entering  his  own  room,  Philip  came  along  the  hall,  with 
a  night-lamp  in  his  hand.  He  had  managed  to  get 
introduced  to  the  heiress,  and  had  been  devouring  her 
with  his  eyes  ever  since  they  had  fallen  on  her  first. 

"  I  say,  Arthur,"  he  cried,  as  he  went  back,  "  what 
a  glorious  little  beauty  she  is !" 

Arthur  Sutherland  looked  at  his  cousin  with  a  pity- 
ing smile. 

"  With  what  different  eyes  people  see  things  !"  he 
said.  "  You  saw  a  glorious  little  beauty,  and  I  saw — a 
dark  fairy  with  a  soft  voice !     Good-night !" 

Arthur  Sutherland's  dreams  were  a  little  confused 

that  night,  and  Eulalie  Rohan  and  Isabel  Vansoll  got 

hopelessly  mixed  up  in  them.     Once,  in  those  uneasy 

^reams,  he  was  walking  through  the  leafy  arcades  and 


f! 


• 


F 


ii 


46 


EULALIE, 


green  aisles  of  Maplewood  with  blue-eyed  Isabel,  robed  in 
White  and  illumined  by  the  sunlight  as  he  had  seen  her 
last,  when,  out  of  the  black  shadow  of  the  trees  a  tall 
serpent  reared  itself  upright  with  a  hiss,  and  the  sun- 
shine was  suddenly  darkened.  The  serpent  had  an 
emerald  flashing  in  its  head,  and  looked  at  him  with  the 
great  black  eyes  of  the  Creole  heiress;  and  then  he 
awoke  with  a  violent  start,  and  the  vision  was  gone. 


BEOINNINO    OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


47 


CHAPTER  III. 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  TROUBLE. 


ARTHUR  SUTIIERLAKD  rose  early  the 
morning  after  his  return  home,  despite  the 
previous  day's  fatiguing  journey,  and  made 
a  hasty  toilet.  The  house  was  as  still  as  a 
tomb ;  no  one  was  stirring  but  the  birds  who  chanted 
their  matin-hymns  in  the  glorious  May  sunshine,  among 
tlie  branches  of  the  quaint  hemlocks  trailing  against  his 
chamber-window.  It  had  been  his  custom  from  boy- 
hood to  indulge  himself  in  a  long  walk,  a  longer  ride, 
or  a  sea-bath  before  breakfast.  He  chose  to  ride  this 
morning ;  and,  mounting  his  horse,  rode  away,  with  all 
the  old  boyish  light-heartedness  back  again.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  be  at  home  after  all  these  years  of  sight- 
seeing, and  roaming  up  and  down  this  big  world  ;  and 
Maplewood,  in  the  refulgent  morning  sunshine,  was 
inexpressibly  beautiful. 

Yes,  Maplewood  was  beautiful,  and  Arthur's  heart 
was  in  a  glow  of  happy  pride  as  he  rode  down  the 
long  graveled  drive,  through  the  tall  iron  gates,  and 
out  into  the  dusty  highroad.     He  met  the  farm-laborers 


48 


BEGINNING    OF    TUB    TROUBLE. 


going  to  tlicir  work ;  lie  could  see  that  St.  Mary's  was 
all  astir,  but  lie  did  not  ride  tlirough  St.  Mary's.     He 
galloped   along  the   quiet   roads,   so   tempted   by  the 
beauty  of  the  morning  that  two  hours   had   elapsed 
before  he  returned.     Leaving  his  horse  to  the  care  ol 
the  stable-boys,  he   came  round  by  the   back  of  tho 
house,  humming  a  tune.     As  he  turned  a  sharp  angle 
of  the  building,  the  long  grassy  terrace  overlooking  the 
sea  came  in  sight ;  and  he  saw,  to  his  surprise,  a  fairy 
form,  in  a  white  cashmere  morning-dress,  loitering  to 
and  fro,  and  dropping  pebbles  into  the  placid  waters 
below.     She  wore  a  little  straw  hat  on  her  black  curls, 
its  white  feather  drooping  among  them,  and  the  scarlet 
shawl  of  last  night  drawn  around  her  shoulders.     Miss 
Rohan  was  not  loitering  alone  either  ;  near  her,  leaning 
over  the  low  iron  railing,  stood  Philip  Sutherland,  talk- 
ing   animatedly,   and   Arthur    could    hear    her    low, 
musical  laugh  where  he  stood.     There  was  no  earthly 
reason  why  this  should  annoy  him — he  would  not  for  a 
moment  have  confessed,  even  to  himself,  that  it  did 
annoy  him — but  his  brow  contracted,  and  he  felt,  for 
the  first  time,  that  his  cousin  was  an  officious  meddler, 
whom  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  left  in  New 
York.     He  had  started  forward  impulsi^'ely  to    join 
them — was  he  not  master  here,  and  did  ncit  the  laws  of 
hospitality  compel  him  to  be  attentive  to  his  mother's 
gueet? — when  he   as  impulsively  stopped.     Walking 


SE  GINNING     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


40 


rapidly  througli  the  chestnut-grove,  leading  from  the 
lawn  to  this  terrace,  he  saw  Mr.  Rohan,  his  aged  face 
looking  tenfold  more  troubled  and  anxious  and  care- 
worn in  the  garish  sunshine  than  it  had  done  in  the 
lamplight.  The  trouble  in  his  face  was  so  very  like 
terror,  as  he  looked  at  his  granddaughter  loitering  there 
with  Philip  Sutherland,  that  Arthur  stared  at  him, 
amazed.  He  joined  them,  drawing  his  child's  arm 
withm  his  own,  and  bowing  coldly  and  distantly  to  her 
companion.  Ten  minutes  after,  he  saw  the  old  man 
lead  her  away,  and  Philip  following  in  their  wake, 
faithful  as  a  needle  to  the  North  Star.  Arthur  did  not 
join  him  ;  he  lingered  on  the  terrace,  smoking  a  cigar, 
and  trying  to  puzzle  out  the  riddle,  and  only  mystify- 
ing himself  by  the  effort.  He  flung  his  smoked-out 
cigar  into  the  blue  waves ;  and  seeing  by  his  watch  it 
was  the  breakfast-hour,  he  strolled  back  to  the  house, 
and  into  the  breakfast-room. 

The  breakfast-room  at  Maplewood  was  a  very  pretty 
apartment,  with  canary-birds  and  flower-pots  in  the 
window,  and  the  fresh  sea-breeze  rustling  the  muslin 
curtains. 

Standing  among  these  birds  and  flowers  when  he 
entered  was  Eulalie.  That  sunlit  figure  in  the  white 
dress,  among  the  geraniums  and  canaries,  reminded 
him  of  another  picture  he  had  looked  at,  just  before 
leaving  New  York.    But  Eulalie  turned  round,  and  all 

8 


80 


DEaiNNINO     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


I   I 


I       M 


Bimilitude  vanished.  The  dusky  splendor  of  her 
Soutliern  beauty  extinguished  poor  Isabel's  pale  pretti- 
nesS;  as  the  sun  might  a  penny  candle.  The  flashing 
of  those  glorious  eyes  and  those  j^early  teeth,  the  rosy, 
Bmiling  mouth  disclosed,  blotted  out  even  the  memory 
of  his  flaxen-haired  ideal.  lie  hated  tarry  tresses,  and 
Bloe-black  eyes,  and  dusky  skins,  and  passionate  dark 
daughters  of  the  South  ;  but  for  all  that  he  waa  none 
the  less  dazzled  by  those  wonderful  Creole  eyes  now. 
The  gleaming  emeralds  he  had  disliked  so  much 
glittered  no  longer  amid  the  ebon  waves  of  her  hair — 
^ome  scarlet  geranium-blossoms  shone  like  red  stars  in 
their  place,  and  were  the  only  speck  of  color  she 
wore. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  and  Augusta  and  Philip  were  there, 
and  Mr.  Rohan  was  near  his  granddaughter,  as  usual. 
He  sat  beside  her  at  table,  too,  and  listened  to  her,  and 
watched  her,  with  the  same  jealous  watchfulness  as  last 
night.  Just  as  they  sat  down,  a  young  lady  entered 
the  room,  at  sight  of  whom  both  young  men  started  up 
with  exclamations  of  surprise,  shaking  hands,  and  call- 
ing her  familiarly  by  her  Christian  name.  She  was  a 
tall,  slim,  pale  girl,  rather  pretty,  with  the  light  hair, 
and  blue  eyes,  and  a  look  generally,  of  the  Sutherlands. 
She  was  dressed  in  slight  mourning,  and  looked  four  or 
five  years  the  senior  either  of  Augusta  or  Eulalie. 

"  Why,  Lucy,"  Arthur  cried,  "  this  is  an  astonisherl 


BEGINNING    OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


61 


)r    of    her       'i 

)alc  pretti-       | 

le  flasliing       % 

,  the  rosy,       | 

0  memory        j 

resses,  and        i 

)nate  dark       | 

-  waa  none       I 

■J 

eyes  now.       j 

so    mucli       1 

her  hair — 

d  stars  in       J 

color  she      '^ 

vere  there,       | 

,  as  usnaL       j 

;o  her,  and       1 

ness  as  last       | 

dy  entered       | 

started  up       i 

,  and  call-       1 

-'Ti 

She  was  a       | 

ight  hair,       ^^ 

itherlands.      j 

:ed  four  or       J 

lalie.                1 

istonisher  I      M 

I  did  not  know  you  were  here !  Mother  said  nothing 
ahont  it." 

Lucy  Sutherland — she  was  cousin  to  both  young 
men,  and  poorer  even  than  Philip — lifted  her  light 
eyebrows  slightly  as  she  took  her  place. 

"  No,"  she  said  quietly  ;  "  why  should  she  mention 
so  unimportant  a  matter.     It  was  not  worth  mention- 


ing- 


j> 


Arthur  smiled;  perhaps  the  answer  was  charac- 
teristic. 

"  Why  were  you  not  down  last  night  ?" 

"  Because  she  is  an  oddity,"  said  his  mother,  taking 
it  upon  herself  to  reply ;  "  and  as  unsocial  as  that 
Black  Dwarf  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novel.  I  tell  her 
she  should  liave  been  with  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his 
island,  or  go  and  be  a  nun  at  once." 

Miss  Lucy  Sutherland  made  no  reply  ;  silence  was 
another  of  her  oddities,  it  seemed ;  but  Augusta  and 
Eulalie  chattered  away  like  magpies.  The  whole  party 
loitered  a  very  unnecessary  length  of  time  over  the 
breakfast-table ;  and,  when  they  arose,  the  young  ladies 
adjourned  to  the  drawing-room — Miss  Rohan  and  Miss 
Augusta  to  practice  some  wonderful  duet,  and  Miss 
Lucy  to  seat  herself  at  another  window,  and  stitch 
away  industriously  at  some  elaborate  piece  of  em- 
broidery. Philip  Sutherland  hung  devotedly  over  the 
piano,  with  rapt    face ;   the  dragon — as  he   mentally 


n 


BEOTNNINQ     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


Btylcd  tlic  Cul)a!i  inllllonairc — had  gone  to  the  library 
to  write  letters.  Arthur  seated  hunself  beside  his 
cousin  Lucy,  to  talk  to  her,  and  furtively  watch  the 
fairy  ligure  in  white  at  the  piano ;  how  well  she  played ; 
how  those  tin}',  rinf^ed  hands  flew  over  the  polished 
keys,  and  what  wonderful  power  to  fascinate  the  little 
dark  witch  had !  lie  talked  to  Lucy  Sutherland, 
snipping  rcnioi-selessly  at  her  silks,  and  listening  to  the 
music,  and  thinking  what  danger  he  might  have  been 
in  of  falling  in  love  with  a  black-eyed  girl  if  he  had 
not  been  fortunate  enough  to  first  meet  with  Isabel 
Yansell. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  at  Maplewood,  Lucy  ?" 
he  asked  his  cousin. 

"  Since  my  father's  death — five  months  ago,"  she 
replied,  in  a  grave  but  steady  voice.  "  Your  mother 
finds  me  useful,  and  desires  me  to  stay  ;  and,  being  of 
use,  I  am  quite  willing."  * 

Arthur  smiled  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Proud  Lucy  !  You  are  the  same  as  of  old,  I  see. 
I  am  very  glad  you  are  here.  You  must  never  leave 
us,   Lucy,  imtil  you  leave  us  for  a  home  of  your 


own. 


» 


Lucy  Sutherland  was  habitually  pale,  but  two  red 
spots  came  into  her  cheeks  and  slowly  died  out  again. 
She  did  not  reply  ;  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  her 
work,  as  her  needle  flashed  in  and  out. 


^'^•^'^.!,i; 


BtJG  INNING     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


53 


"  You  were  licrc  when  Mr.  and  Miss  Rulum  camo, 
of  course  ?"  he  said,  after  u  pause. 
"  Yes." 

"  llow  do  you  like  Miss  Rohan  ?" 
"  Very  well." 
"  Which  means,  I  suppose,  you  do  not  like  her  at 

all  r 

Lucy  Sutherland  looked  up,  calmly,  as  she  threaded 
her  needle. 

"  Not  at  all !     Why  should  I  dislike  her  ?" 

"  Heaven  knows !  For  Bome  inscnitable  female 
reason ;  but  I  am  sure  you  do  not  like  her." 

"  I  have  seen  very  little  of  Miss  Rohan,"  said  Lucy, 
rather  coldly.  "  I'm  always  busy ;  and  she  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  trouble  herself  much  about  me. 
Even  if  I  were  her  equal  in  social  position,  we  are  so 
mucili  unlike,  and  have  so  few  tastes  and  sympathies  in 
common,  that  we  should  never  care  for  each  other's 
companionship.  Miss  Rohan  never  thought  twice 
about  me,  and  is  supremely  indifferent  whether  I  like 
or  dislike  her." 

"  There  spoke  the  pride  of  all  the  Sutherlands !"  ex- 
claimed Arthur,  smiling.  "  Why,  you  foolish  Lucy, 
what  do  you  mean  by  talking  of  being  beneath  her  ? 
Are  you  not  a  lady  by  birth  and  descent,  and  education, 
as  much  as  she  is  ?  As  for  her  grandfather's  millions, 
she  can  aHord  to  look  down  upon  the  whole  of  us, 


54 


BEOINNINO     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


"wliere  Lliey  arc  concerned ;  for,  if  report  speaks  truly, 
she  will  be  rich  enough  to  buy  and  sell  all  the  Suther- 
Jands  that  ever  existed." 

Here  there  was  an  interruption.  Mrs.  Sutherland 
came  in  to  tell  her  son  there  were  callers  for  him  in 
tlie  reception-room.  The  guests  of  last  night  had 
spread  the  report  of  his  return,  and  his  old  friends 
were  losing  no  time. 

"  Mr.  Synott  asked  for  you,  Philip,"  Mrs.  Suther- 
land said.  "  I  dare  say  you  would  prefer  turning  over 
the  music,  but  you  must  go." 

"Oh,  hang  Mr.  Synott!"  muttered  Philip;  "I 
wish  he  was  in  Jericho  !" 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  however ;  he  had  to  go ; 
and  what  was  worse,  lie  and  Arthur  were  kept  there 
until  the  luncheon-bell  rang,  by  a  constant  stream  of 
troublesome  old  friends.  There  was  a  conservatory  oil: 
this  reception-room  where  the  back-window  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  long  terrace,  and  they  could  see 
Mr.  Rohan  and  his  dark-eyed  granddaughter  lounging 
there,  when  the  practicing  and  letter-writing  were  over. 
They  disappeared  before  luncheon-hour,  and  were  not 
present  at  that  meal ;  neither  was  Lucy.  The  Cuban 
grandee  and  his  graudcliild  had  gone  oil  riding;  and  it 
was  anotlier  of  Lucy's  oddities  never  to  eat  luncheon. 
It  was  a  far  less  pleasant  meal  than  breakfast  had  been, 
although  half  a  dozen  of  the  old  friends  partook  of  it, 


BEOINNINQ    OF    TEE    TROUBLE. 


60 


and  talked  a  great  deal ;  but  the  dark,  piquant  face  and 
wonderful  black  eyes  were  missing,  and  it  was  all  vexa- 
tion of  spirit. 

Arthur  Sutherland  found  that  afternoon  very  long. 
The  troublesome  friends  went  away  at  L^st,  but  not 
until  ho  was  heartily  sick  of  them  ;  and  then  he  went 
up  into  his  room  to  write  letters.  But,  somehow,  the 
great  black  eyes  and  entrancing  Creole  face  came 
between  him  and  the  white  paper,  and  sent  him  into 
long  fits  of  musing  that  made  him  sadly  neglect  his 
writing.  He  tried  to  read;  but  his  book  seemed 
stupid,  and  he  flung  it  aside  and  went  out,  in  despera- 
tion, to  smoke  away  the  tedious  hours.  lie  found 
Philip  Sutherland  pacing  up  and  down  the  sunny  kwn, 
with  his  cigar,  and  joined  him.  Augusta  sat  under  a 
tree,  r'^.ading  a  novel,  with  a  big  black  Newfoundland 
dozing  beside  her ;  and  Lucy,  in  her  own  chamber- 
window,  still  bending  over  her  embroidery,  watched 
them,  and  guessed  instinctively  the  cause  of  their  rest- 
lessness. 

^'  When  they  were  here  before,"  she  thought,  with 
a  contemptuous  smile,  "they  were  riding  over  the 
country,  or  off  with  their  fishing-rods  all  day  long. 
Now,  they  dare  not  stir  outside  the  gates,  lest  they 
phould  lose  one  glimpse  of  that  sallow  baby-face  and 
those  great,  meaningless  black  eyes." 

The  young  men  smoked  a  vast  number  of  cigars 


nl 


56 


BEQIimiNG     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


under  the  waving  arms  of  the  old  trees ;  but  they  did 
not  talk  much,  and  Miss  Rohan's  name  was  not  once 
mentioned.  Yet  both  understood  intuitively  what  the 
other  waited  for,  and  hated  liim  for  it.  Philip  made 
some  allusion  once  to  Miss  Yansell,  and  asked  Arthur, 
carelessly,  when  he  was  going  back  to  New  York,  and 
had  met  with  a  decided  rebuff. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  the  trees  were  fling- 
ing long,  fantastic  shado\7S  on  the  cool,  dark  sward, 
whem  Mr.  and  Miss  Rohan  returned. 

Beautiful  she  always  was ;  but  in  a  side-saddle  she 
was  bewitching.  She  rode  a  spirited,  flashing-eyed 
Arab,  as  dark  and  as  daintily  small  as  herself,  and  her 
long,  green  I'iding-skirt  floated  back  in  the  breeze  as 
she  cantered  up  the  avenue.  Exercise  could  not  flush 
the  creamy  pallor  of  her  dark,  Creole  face ;  but  it  made 
it  radiant,  and  the  black  eyes  were  as  bright  a'i  two 
sable  stars.  Both  young  men  started  forward  to  assist 
her,  but,  p^athering  up  her  long  train  in  one  gloved 
hand,  and  laughing  gay^  she  sprang  lightly  out  of  the 
saddle  unaided. 

"  Thanks,  Messieurs  !"  she  said  ;  "  but  Arab  and  I 
understand  each  other.  Grandpapa,  I  shall  not  wait 
for  you.     I  must  run  away  and  dress." 

She  tripped  away  as  lightly  as  any  other  fairy,  and 
the  young  men  resumed  their  sauntering  up  and  down 
the  dai'keniug  avenue  until  the  dinner-bell  rang.    Then 


BEOINNING     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


«7 


they  returned  to  the  house ;  and  presently  the  Ladies 
appeared,  and  Miss  Kohan,  as  usual,  elegantly  dressed. 
She  had  a  fancy  very  often  for  arraying  her  light,  deli- 
cate little  figure  in  rich  silks  and  costly  moire  antiques, 
stiff  enough  to  stand  alone ;  but  this  evening  Arthur 
Sutherland  could  hardly  tell  what  she  wore.  He  only 
knew  she  came  floating  in  in  a  cloud  of  gauzy  amber 
drapery,  like  a  mist  of  sunshine,  with  all  her  feathery, 
black  ringlets  hanging  around  her,  and  wearing  no 
ornaments  save  a  glittering  opal  cross  attached  to  a 
slender  gold  chain.  The  yellow,  sinister  light  of  the 
opals  was  almost  as  distasteful  to  him  as  the  greenish 
ffleam  of  the  emeralds. 

"  I  wish  she  would  not  wear  jewels,"  he  thought. 
"  At  least,  none  bat  diamonds.  They  are  the  only 
gems  to  bear  comparison  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes." 

Miss  Rohan  was  in  high  spirits,  and  chattered  away 
in  her  sweet,  soft  voice  about  the  delightful  long  ride 
she  and  grandpapa  had  had,  and  which  she  had  enjoyed 
so  much.  The  little  heiress  and  the  Sutherlands — 
mother,  son,  and  daughter — had  the  conversation  all  to 
tlienisolves.  The  other  three  took  little  share  in  it. 
Lucy  was  silent,  beciiuse  it  was  Lucy's  nature  to  be 
silent.  Mr.  Rohan  was  moodily  distrait,  but  not  too 
much  so  to  keep  that  endless  watch  on  his  grand- 
daughter. And  poor  Philip  sat  staring  at  the  beautiful 
brunette  face  across  the  table  in  speechless  admiration, 


Ml 


58 


BEGIXXiyG     OF    THE     TROUBLE. 


to  the  sad  neglect  of  his  dinner  and  the  rules  of  polite- 
ness. 

But  Miss  Itolian  took  no  notice.  She  was  so 
accustomed  to  l)e  stared  at  wherever  she  went  that  she 
had  grown  used  to  it,  and  took  the  unconscious  hom- 
age paid  lier  beauty  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Philip  held  open  the  dining-room  door  for  the 
Lidics  when  dinner  was  over,  and  looked  as  if  he  would 
lika  to  follow  thorn.  The  three  gentlemen  were  not 
very  sociable  over  their  wine  and  walnuts.  Arthur 
essayed  conversation  with  the  grandfather  of  Eulalie, 
but  failed  ;  for  Mr.  Rohan  only  answered  absently  and 
in  monosyllables.  So  there  was  no  temptation  to 
linger  ;  and  they  speedily  made  their  appearance  in  the 
drawing-room,  where  they  found  Mrs.  Sutherland  in 
an  after-dinner  doze,  and  Lucy  reading  in  a  corner. 
The  other  two  were  nowhere  visible,  and  Mrs.  Suther- 
land opened  her  eyes  to  explain. 

"  The  girls  have  gone  out,  I  believe,  to  look  at  tlui 
moonlight.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Rohan,  but  may  I  ask 
you  to  remain  a  moment  ?  I  wish  to  consult  you  on  a 
little  matter  of  business." 

Clever  mamma!  Her  son  smiled  to  himself  as  lie 
stepped  through  the  open  window  out  on  the  lawn. 
The  moon  was  sailing  up  in  a  cloudless  skv :  the  starg 
were  numberless  ;  and  Maplewood — its  gray,  old  man- 
sion, its   woods   and  shrubberies   and  groves,  its  vel- 


BEGINNING     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


69 


voty  lawns  and  far-spreading  meadows — looked  beauti- 
ful enoui^li  for  faifv-land. 

Instinctively  the  young  men  turned  their  steps  ter- 
raceward  ;  and  there,  leaning  over  the  low  iron  railing, 
were  the  two  girlish  figures,  the  petite  fairy  in  amber 
with  a  cloud  of  black  lace  haniirinii:  around  her ;  the 
other  in  pink  muslin.     The  wide  sea  lay  as  smooth  as  a 
polished  mirror ;  the  moonlight  shone  upon  it  in  one 
long,   silvery   track,   in  and   out   of   which    the  boats 
ilitted,  with  their  white  wings  spread.     One  gny  boat- 
ful were  singing,  and   the  music  came  borne  delight- 
fully to  them  on  the  low  night-breeze.     A  woman's 
sweet    voice    was    singing,   "  Kathleen   Mavourneen," 
and  neither  of  the  cousins  spoke  as  they  joined  the 
listening  figures.     The  spell  of  the  moonlit  sea  and  the 
sad,  sweet  song  was  not  to  be  broken  ;  but  Eulalie's 
dark  eyes  and  bright  smile  welcomed   them.     It  wiia 
the  first  time  Arthur  had   been  near  her  without  the 
Argus-eyes  of  the  grandfather  being  upoTi  them  ;  and 
just  as  the  melody  died  out  on  the  water,  and  he  was 
thinkino;  how  best  to  take  advantac^e  of  the  situation, 
lo  I  there  was   that    ubi(piitous   grandfather  emerging 
from  the  chestnut-walk.     Had  he  cut  short  Mrs.  Suth- 
erland's little  business  matter,  or  had  he  managed  to 
escape  ? 

"  The  deuce  take  him  !"  was,  I  am  afraid,  Arthur 
Sutherland's   mental   ejaculation.     "  If  she   were  the 


60 


DEQINNINO     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


%' 
: 

if 


SHw 


!;! 


Koh-i-noor 
guarded  I" 


itself    she    could    not    be    more    closely 


(( 


The  dew  is  falling  heavily,  Eulalie,"  he  said, 
drawing  her  hand  within  his  arm ;  "  it  is  impinident  of 
you  to  be  out  at  this  hour.  Miss  Sutherland,  let  me 
advise  you  to  return  to  the  house." 

He  walked  away  with  his  granddaughter,  but  none 
of  the  others  followed.  There  was  no  mistaking  his 
coldly  repellent  manner,  and  Augusta  apostrophized 
him  as  a  "  horrid  old  bear." 

"  That's  the  way  he  tyrannizes  over  her  all  the 
time !"  exclaimed  Miss  Sutherland ;  "  no  old  Turk  could 
be  woi'se.  I've  told  Eulalie  about  a  million  times  I 
wouldn't  stand  it,  but  then  she  has  no  spirit  I  I'd  stay 
out,  just  for  spite !" 

Was  it  tyranny  ?  Eulalie,  looking  up,  saw  her 
grandfather's  face  so  full  of  distress  and  trouble  that 
her  tender  anxiety  v/as  aroused. 

"  What  is  it,  grandpapa  ?"  she  asked.  "  What  is 
troubling  you  ?     Something  has  happened." 

"  No,  my  darling,"  he  said,  with  a  weary  sigh, 
"  nothing  has  happened,  but  the  old  trouble  that  never 
will  end  until  I  am  in  my  grave !  Oh,  my  darling !  my 
darling  !     I  wish  we  were  both  there  together !" 

"Grandpapa!"  Eulalie  cried,  shocked  and  af- 
frighted. 

Again  he  sighed  a  long  and  heavy  sigh.     "  Eulalie, 


Bl:^  INNING     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


01 


■IL 


are  you  not  tired  of  this  place  ?  Would  you  not  like 
to  go  home  ?" 

"  Home  I  Oh,  dear  no,  grandpapa  I  I  am  very 
happy  here,  and  it  is  not  two  weeks  since  we  came. 
What  would  Mrs.  Sutherland  say  ?" 

"Why  should  yoi^  care,  Eulalie?  Are  we  not 
happy  enough  together?  Let  us  go  back  to  Eden 
Lawn,  and  live  quietly,  as  we  did  before  I  sent  you  to 
school.     What  do  we  want  or  care  for  these  people  ?" 

"Very  well,  grandpapa,"  But  the  sweet  face 
darkened  and  saddened  so,  while  she  said  it,  that  his 
heart  smote  him. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go,  my  darling  ?" 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  I  vt^ill  go  if  you  desire  it,  but  it 
is  very  pleasant  to  be  here." 

The  troubled  look  grew  deeper  on  his  face  than  she 
had  ever  seen  it,  and  his  answer  was  something  very 
like  a  groan.  She  clasped  her  little  hands  round  his 
arm,  and  lifted  her  wistful  dark  eyes  to  his. 

"  Oh,  grandpapa,  what  is  it  ?  What  is  this  dread- 
ful trouble  that  is  blighting  your  whole  life  ?  When 
will  you  cease  to  treat  me  like  a  child — when  will  you 
tell  me  ?  I  know  I  am  only  a  foolish  little  girl,"  she 
said,  mth  a  rueful  look  at  her  diminutive  proportions; 
"  but  indeed  I  atn  not  such  a  baby  as  you  think  !  I 
can  bear  to  hear  it,  whatever  it  is,  and  you  will  feel 
happier  frr  telling." 


'    N     tfi 


M 


G;i 


LEG  HONING     OF    TUE    THOUBLE. 


"  Happier !"  he  cried  out,  passionately,  "  Eulalie, 
tlic  day  I  tell  you  my  lieart  will  break  I  Oh,  my  pet  I 
my  darling!  God  alone  knows  how  I  have  loved  you, 
and  yet  my  only  prayer  for  you,  all  your  innocent  life, 
has  been,  tliat  he  might  bless  you  with  an  early  death!" 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  speechless  affright,  her 
great  black  eyes  dilating  as  she  listened  to  the  appalling 
words. 

"  When  I  placed  you  in  the  Sacred  Heart,"  he  went 
on,  "  it  wns  not  so  much  that  you  might  be  educated — 
that  could  have  been  done  at  home  ;  it  was  in  the  hope 
that  you  might  take  the  vail,  that  y/o\\  might  become  a 
nun.  Hundreds  as  young  and  beautiful  and  rich  as 
yourself  renounce  all  this  world  can  give,  yearly,  to 
become  the  bride  of  Heaven ;  and  1  hoped  you  would 
do  the  same,  and  so  escape  the  horrible  fatfility  that 
may  come.  You  would  have  been  safe,  then ;  they 
never  could  tear  a  nun  from  her  convent." 

"  Tear  a  nun  from  her  convent !  Oh,  grandpapa  ! 
grandpapa !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Not  now,  Eulalie — not  now,  but  very  soon  yoi^ 
bhall  know  !  Yer\^  soon,  because  it  is  impos3ibjc  for 
me  longer  to  conceal  the  horrible  truth.  While  you 
were  a  child,  all  was  well,  and  I  have  tried  to  kocj^  you 
a  child  as  long  as  I  could.  But  ycu  are  a  woman  now, 
my  little  innocent  lamb !  I  never  felt  it  so  pLtirdy  ae 
to-niglit." 


j^^'-t 


n  KG  INNING     OF    THE     TIWUDLE. 


68 


"  To-night  ?"     Slie  corJd  only  echo  his  own  wordg 
-she  was  too  attcrly  bcwil  iercd  and  sliockcd  to  think. 


u 


Yes,  these  young  men  have  made  nic  see  it  very 
plainly,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  I  might  have  known  it 
was  madness  to  try  to  keep  lovers  off,  and  you  a 
beauty  and  an  heiress.  The  convent  was  the  only 
hope.  Say,  my  child,  is  it  too  late  yet  ?  do  you  not 
long  to  go  back  to  the  peace  and  holy  calm  of  tho  con- 
vent, out  of  this  weary  battle  of  life?" 

"Grandpapa,  I  Wiis  very  happy  in  the  Sacred 
Heart  with  the  dear,  kind  ladies,  but  1  am  also  very 
happy  here  in  this  beautiful  world,  or  would  be,  if  your 
trouble  did  not  make  me  so  wretched !  Oh,  grand- 
papa !  what  is  this  dreadful  secret  ?" 

"  Something  too  dreadful  for  my  lips  ever  to  tell 
you.  I  nuist  say  the  horrible  truth  in  writing,  if  my 
heavt  breaks  whilst  doing  it." 

Every  trace  of  color  had  faded  out  of  the  dark 
face,  and  her  black  eyes  were  dilated  in  vague 
horror. 

"  Is  it  any  disgrace,  grandpapa  ? — my  father — "  she 
faltered  and  stopped. 

"  Your  father  was  the  soul  of  honor.  lie  never 
wronged  a  human  jreature  in  his  life  1" 

"  And  my  mother  ? — I  never  knew^  cither  of  them, 
grandpapa !" 

"  You  mother  was  beautiful  and  pure  as  an  angel  I 


•■'■' 


!!■  Wt. 


!;    ! 


Gi 


BE O INNING    OF    THE    TUOUBLE. 


•ffli 


m 


As  innocent  as  a  baby  of  all  the  wickedness  and  misery 
of  this  big  world  I" 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  fervent  thanksgiving.  A 
great  fear  had  been  removed. 

"  It  cannot  be  anything  so  very  terrible,  then,"  sho 
said.  "  You  magnify  the  danger,  grandpapa.  Only 
tell  me,  and  see  how  bravely  I  will  bear  it !" 

They  were  ascending  the  portico-stups.  lie  looked 
down  on  her,  and  she  saw  what  a  haggard  and  wretched 
face  iio  wore. 

"My  poor  little  girl!"  he  said  mournfully,  "you 
do  not  know  what  you  are  saying !  There  are  horrors 
in  this  great  world  that  you  never  have  dreamed 
of.  Go  to  your  room,  my  darling,  and  pray  to 
Heaven  to  give  you  strength  to  bear  the  blow  when  it 
comes." 

"  Only  one  word,  grandpapa !"  she  cried,  a  wild 
idea  flashing  through  her  brain  ;  "  is  it  some  hereditary 
disease  you  fear — is  it " — her  very  lips  whitening  as  she 
pronounced  the  word — "  is  it  insanity  V 

The  old  man  looked  at  he^  in  unmistakable  sur- 
prise. 

"  My  darling,  what  put  such  a  revolting  idea  in  your 
poor  little  head  !  No,  physically  and  mentally  the  race 
from  which  you  have  sprung  is  sound.  There  are  worse 
thincjs  even  than  madness !" 

He  left  her  with  the  last  dreadful  words  on  his  lips. 


ul 


BEG  INNING     OF    THE    TROUBLE. 


and  went  up  stairs.  Eulalie  lingered  a  moment  in  the 
portico,  shivering  with  a  horrible  vague  fear.  The  two 
strolling  bade  from  the  terrace  caught  one  glimpse  of 
her,  before  ehe  saw  them  and  flitted  in,  but  that 
glimpse  was  enough  to  reveal  how  sad  and  disheartened 
the  bright  face  had  become. 

"  The  old  brute  has  been  scolding  her !"  burst  out 
Philip  Sutherland ;  "  and  choking  would  be  too  good 
for  him — the  old  monster  1" 


GO 


BATTLING     WITU    FATE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


BATTLING    WITH   FATE. 


HERE  was  a  perceptible  change  in  the  man- 
of  Eulalie  Rohan,  after  that  night's  inter- 
view. The  vaguely-terrible  things  the  old 
man  had  said  could  scarcely  fail  to  affect 
his  graTidauglitcr,  and  distuil)  her  greatly.  She  had 
been  so  bappy  all  her  life — to  her  existence  was  one  long 
holiday — this  lower  world  was  no  place  of  exile,  but  a 
terrestrial  Eden,  and  she  had  been  as  innocently  and 
joyously  happy  as  the  wild  birds  warbling  in  the  trees. 
But  now  some  shadowy  horror  impended  over  her,  all 
the  more  fearful  for  Ijeing  shadowy,  and  the  sunshine 
of  her  life  was  suddenly  darkened. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  all  means,"  she  thought,  sadly. 
"  If  grandpapa  would  only  speak  out — I  think  I  coulc 
bear  it  far  better  than  this  suspense.  "What  can  this 
dark  mystery  be  ?  It  is  not  disgrace,  it  is  not  disease, 
it  is  not  poverty.  What,  then,  is  it  that  is  worse 
than  these?  Poor  dear  grandpapa!  he  is  very 
■wretched,  I  know,  but  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  be  half 
60  ur  happy  when  I  know  the  truth,  as  I  am  now." 


BATTLING     WITH    FATK. 


6T 


Tlic  family  at  Maplcwoocl  noticed  the  clianjijc,  and 
wondered  too.  They  saw  tlie  shadow  tliat  had  fallen 
on  the  little  Creole  heiress,  and  how  lovinjj^ly  sorrowful 
the  eyes  with  which  she  watched  her  grandfather.  She 
devoted  herself  more  to  him  than  ever  before,  walked 
with  him,  rode  with  him,  read  to  him,  sang  to  him,  and 
did  all  in  her  ])ower  to  divert  him  from  his  morhid 
melanclujly,  with  an  earnest  devotion  that  was  touch- 
ing to  see. 

"  There  is  something  wrong  and  abnormal  about 
all  this,"  thought  Arthur  Sutherland  ;  "  there  is  some 
mystery  here,  or  else  Augusta  was  right,  and  the  old 
man  is  a  monouianiac,  and  she  knows  it.  Poor  little 
girl !  David  never  tried  harder  to  win  Saul  from 
his  gloomy  melancholy  than  she  does  her  grandfather. 
I  must  ask  my  mother  what  she  knows  of  their 
history." 

It  was  one  evening,  in  the  long  drawing-room, 
about  a  week  after  that  moonlight  night,  that  Arthur 
thought  this.  The  windows  were  all  wide  open  and 
the  pale  twilight  stole  in,  fragrant  with  the  perfume  of 
the  rose-trees.  Eulalie  Rohan  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  one 
of  these  open  casements,  dressed  in  white ;  and  with 
no  jewels,  green  or  yellow,  to  offend  his  fastidious  eye. 
The  breeze  lifted  her  feathery  ebon  curls,  and  fluttered 
back  her  flo,'  '  g  muslin  sleeves,  as  her  fingers  lightly 
touched  the  strings  of  her  guitar.     Iler  grandfather  sat 


I'i 


m 


68 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


I:< 


ll    -V 


ill  an  arm-chair  beside  lier ;  listening  with  closed  eyes 
to  the  sweet  old  Spanish  ballad  she  sang.  There  was 
no  other  light  than  the  pale  gloaming ;  the  song  was 
low  and  wild,  and  mournful,  and  the  singer's  voice  full 
of  pathos,  that  went  to  his  heart.  Philip  Sutherland 
was  listening  just  outside  the  window  with  his  heart 
in  his  eyes.  Poor  Philip  was  wildly,  and  hopolcssly, 
and  deeply  in  love  with  the  little  Creole  beauty,  and 
made  no  secret  of  it ;  and  w  is  madly  jealous  of  Arthur, 
and  every  other  single  man  in  the  neighborhood,  under 
forty,  who  spoke  to  her.  Augusta  and  Lucy  were 
spending  the  evening  out — his  motlier  sat  at  the 
other  extremity  of  the  apartment,  reading  a  magazine 
by  the  last  rays  of  the  daylight.  Arthur  went  over 
and  sat  beside  her,  rnd  plunged  into  the  suljject  head- 
foremost. 

"Mother,"  he  said;  "how  long  have  you  known 
Mr.  Rohan  ?" 

Mrs.  Sutherland  looked  up  and  laid  down  her 
book. 

"  How  \^ti^^  have  I  known  Mr.  Rohan  ?  Not  very 
long.  When  Augusta  was  at  school  in  Montreal,  I 
met  him  there.  It  is  about  three  years  since  I  saw 
him  first." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  his  history '{  I  am 
curious  to  know  the  meaning  of  that  settled  melan- 
choly of  his." 


tl 

dl 
t( 


\\ 


'  i 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


69 


"  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  unless  it  be  continued  grief  for 
the  death  of  his  only  son." 

"  His  only  son !  Enlalie's  father  !  But  he  has  been 
dead  for  upward  of  eighteen  years.  A  tolerable  time 
to  blunt  the  edge  of  any  sorrow." 

"  It  has  not  blunted  his,  it  seems ;  and  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  account  for  his  gloom  in  any  other  way.  His 
son  married  very  young,  before  he  was  twenty,  and 
wrent  with  his  bride  from  Louisiana  to  Cuba,  and  died 
there  ten  months  after  with  yellow  fever.  Ilis  wife,  a 
poor  little  helpless  thing  of  sixteen,  wrote  to  Mr. 
Rohan,  who  went  out  there  immediately,  to  find  her 
utterly  prostrated  by  the  blow.  She  idolized  her 
young  husband,  it  seems,  and  never  held  up  her  head 
again.  A  few  weeks  after  Eulalie's  birth,  she  was  laid 
beside  Ir*'^  iu  the  ground  ;  and  Mr.  Rohan  bought  the 
estate  there— -Eden  Lawn — and  devoted  himself  to  the 
child  she  liad  left.  Eulalie  grew  up  there,  and  never 
quitted  it  until  three  years  ago,  when  she  was  fifteen ; 
and  he  placed  her  in  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Montreal,  to 
complete  her  very  imperfect  education.  That  is  all 
I  know  of  their  histor)'^,  and  this  much  Mr.  Kohan  told 
me  himself." 

"  Poor  little  tiling !"  said  Arthur,  looking  pityingly 
over  at  the  orphan  heii'css.  "  She  is  poorer  than  other 
girls,  notwj'jistanding  her  grandfather's  millions.  And 


i  , 


70 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


o 


you  think  the  loss  of  his  son  has  been  prejmg  on  his 
spirits  ever  since  ?" 

"  It  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  account  for  his 
singular  gloom;  and  his  continual  watchful  anxiety 
about  Eulalie  no  doubt  springs  from  excessive  love. 
lie  seems  very  unwilling  to  speak  of  himself  or  his 
family  affairs  at  all — in  fact,  I  believe  he  never  would 
talk  if  he  could  hel]^  it." 

"  The  Itohans  are  English,  you  told  me,  by  descent. 
Wliat  was  Eulalie's  mother?" 

"  A  lovely  French  Creole,  I  have  heard ;  and 
Eulalie  inherits  all  her  gorgeous  Southern  beauty.  She 
is  like  some  Assyrian  princess,  with  those  luminous 
eyes  and  that  wonderful  fall  of  hair." 

The  last  cadence  of  the  song  died  out  as  Mrs. 
Sutherland  said  this — died  out  as  sadly  as  the  last 
cadence  of  a  funeral  hymn.  Arthur  looked  over  at  the 
twilight  picture ;  the  old  man  was  asleep  in  his  chair, 
and  the  little  white  figure  specking  the  blue  dusk  free 
from  his  surveillance  for  once.  The  opportunity  was 
not  to  be  lost.  Arthur  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  and 
Eulalie's  pensive  face  lit  up  with  a  beautiful,  shy,  wel- 
coming smile. 

"  You  song  is  a  very  sad  one,  Miss  Kohan," 
he  said ;  "  but  all  your  songs  are  that  Is  it  the 
old  story  of  the  nightingale  with  its  breast  against 
a  thorn  ?" 


B ATT  LIN  Q     WITH    FATE. 


71 


" '  The  sweetest  songs  are  those  which  tell  of 
saddest  thought,'  "  quoted  Eulalie  ;  "  grandpapa  loves 
those  old  Spanish  ballads,  and  at  this  hour  so  do  I.  I 
used  to  sit  and  sing  to  him  by  the  hour,  in  the  twilight, 
at  dear  old  Eden  Lawn." 

She  struck  a  few  plaintive  chords  of  the  air  she  had 
been  singing,  and  looked  up,  dreamily,  at  the  evening 
star,  whose  tremulous  beauty  she  had  often  watched 
through  the  acacia  leaves,  at  this  hour,  in  her  sunny 
Cuban  home. 

"  What  a  lovely  night  it  is !"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Arthur;  "too  lovely  to  spend  in  the 
house.  Will  you  not  come  down  to  the  terrace,  to  see 
the  moon  rise  ?" 

Philip  Sutherland,  watching  them,  jealously,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  clematis  vines,  gnashed  liis  teeth  at  tin's 
rather  sentimental  request,  but  Eulalie  only  smiled  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  You  forget,  Mr.  Sutherland,  grandpapa  objects  to 
the  night  air  for  me.  I  don't  think  it  does  iiie  any 
harm,  but  he  does,  and  that  settles  the  matter." 

"  You  are  obedience  itself.  Miss  Rohan." 

"Grandpapa  loves  me  so  very  much,"  she  said, 
simply  ;  "  it  is  the  least  I  can  do,  surely." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Sutherland  was  ring- 
ing for  lights,  but  the  moon  streaming  in  through 
the   waving  foliage   lit  up  this  window  with  silvery 


3H'  <    t 


i^f: 


ill 


dU 


■  i 


llfc 

ml 


ft  H I 


i^i 


72 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


radiance.  The  little  white  figure,  the  tender,  beantiftil 
face,  the  drooping  head,  with  its  cloud  of  shining 
tresses,  made  a  very  pretty  picture,  which  stamped 
iteelf  indelibly  in  the  memory  of  the  two  young 
men,  when  the  poor  little  beauty's  tragic  story  was 
all  over. 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  dine  this  evening  at  Colonel 
Madison's  with  Lucy  and  Augusta,"  he  said,  presently. 

"  I  was  invited,  but  grandpapa  did  not  wish  me  to 
go." 

"  Your  grandpapa  is  as  surly  an  old  Turk  as  ever  I 
heard  of!"  thought  Arthur;  "his  love  is  more  like 
tyranny  than  anything  else." 

"  And  I  preferred  staying  home  myself,"  said  Eula- 
lie,  lifting  her  earnest,  dark  eyes  to  his  face,  while  the 
thought  passed  through  his  mind.  "  I  am  always  hap- 
pier at  home  with  grand — " 

She  stopped  and  sprang  to  her  feet.  Arthur  and 
Philip  darted  forward,  and  all  stared  at  the  old  man. 
He  was  still  asleep,  but  in  his  sleep  he  had  screamed 
out — a  scream  so  full  of  horror  that  it  had  thrilled 
through  them  all.  His  face  was  convulsed,  his  handi 
outstretched,  and  working  in  agony. 

"  It  is  false !"  he  cried,  in  i  voice  between  a  gasp 
and  a  slirick.  "  She  is  mine,  and  you  shall  not  take  her 
from  me  ?     Oh,  Eulalie !     Eulalie !     Eulalie !" 

He  awoke  with  that  scream  of  agony  on  his  lips,  his 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


7» 


face  still  convulsed  with  the  horror  of  his  dream,  hia 
fingers  working,  his  ej^es  wild.  Eulalie  knelt  beside 
him,  her  face  ashen  white,  and  caught  his  haud  in  her 
own. 

"  I  am  here,"  she  said ;  "  dear,  dear  grandpapa,  what 
is  the  matter  ?" 

With  an  unnatural  cry  he  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and  strained  her  to  him,  his  whole  form  quivering  with 
convulsive  emotion. 

"  Thank  God !"  he  cried ;  "  it  was  all  a  dream  !  Oh, 
my  darling !  my  darling !  I  thought  they  were  going 
to  tear  you  from  rae !" 

He  dropped  his  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  burst  out 
into  a  passion  of  hysterical  sobbing,  dreadful  to  hear, 
Eulalie  looked  up  at  Arthur  with  a  face  like  marble,  but 
trying  bravely  to  be  calm. 

"  Will  you  help  him  up  to  his  room,  Mr.  Sutheir- 
land  ?  Dear,  dear,  dear  grandpapa,  don't  cry !  Yon 
are  breaking  my  heart!  Dearest  grandpapa,  don't. 
Eulalie  is  here — it  was  only  a  bad  dream !  Nobody 
shall  ever  take  me  from  you  I" 

She  kissed  him,  and  caressed  the  poor  old  head ;  and 
strove  by  every  endearment  to  soothe  him,  her  voice 
trembling  sadly.  The  rest  stood  by,  pale,  startled,  and 
wondering. 

The  old  man  lifted  his  head  at  last,  and  saw  them. 
The  sight  of  those  pale,  grave  faces  seemed  to  restore 


74 


BATTLING     WITH    FaTE, 


him  magically,  and  he  arose,  still  sustaining  his  clasp  of 
his  granddaughter,  the  horror  of  his  dream  yet  vibrat- 
ing through  all  his  frame. 

"  I  have  had  a  terrible  dream !"  he  said  ;  "  I  fear  I 
have  startled  you  all.  Eulalie,  will  you  help  me  to  my 
room  ?" 

Arthur  came  forward. 

*''  Miss  Rohan  is  not  strong  enough,"  he  said ;  "  per- 
mit me  to  assist  you  up-stairs." 

But  the  old  man  would  accept  no  assistance  save  his 
granddaughter's ;  and  Arthur  had  to  stand  and  watch 
them  toiling  wearily  up  the  great  staircase,  he  leaning 
on  her  arm.  Not  one  of  the  three  spoke  when  tli(3y 
were  gone.  Mi's.  Sutherland  retreated  to  her  sofa  with 
a  very  grave  face.  Philip  went  up  to  his  own  chamber. 
The  drawing-room  was  a  dreary  desert,  now  that  slio 
was  gone,  and  Arthur  stepped  out  of  the  open  window 
on  the  moonlit  lawn  to  smoke,  and  cogitate  over  this 
queer  business. 

"  There  is  a  screw  loose  somewhere,"  he  thought ; 
"  there  is  no  effect  without  a  cause.  What,  then,  is  the 
cause  of  this  old  man's  morbid  dread  of  losing  his 
granddaughter  ?  It  haunts  him  in  his  sleep^t  makes 
his  waking  life  a  misery.  There  must  be  some  cause 
for  this  fear — some  grounds  for  this  ceaseless  terror ;  or 
else,  through  sheer  love,  he  is  going  mad.  In  either 
case,  she  is  much  to  be  pitied ;  poor  little  thing !    How 


BATTLING     WITU    FATE. 


75 


white  and  terrified  that  pleading  face  was  she  turned  to 
me.     Poor  child — she  is  only  a  child !    I  pity  her  very 


muo 


h!" 


Yes;  Mr.  Sutherland  pitied  the  black-eyed  little 
heiress  very  much,  forgetting  how  near  akin  pity  is  to 
that  other  feeling  he  was  resolutely  determined  not  to 
feel  for  her.  lie  pitied  her  very  much,  with  this 
dreadful  old  grandfather,  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
lawn  in  the  moonlight,  thinking  about  her  until  the 
carriage  that  had  been  sent  to  Colonel  Madison's  re- 
turned with  his  sister  and  cousin.  It  was  very  late 
then — ^past  midnight — but  he  could  see  the  light  burn- 
ing in  Mr.  Rohan's  room  ;  and  the  shadow^s  cast  on  the 
blind,  the  shadows  of  the  old  man  and  his  grandchild, 
sitting  there,  talking  still. 

Yes,  they  sat  there  talking  still ;  the  terror  of  his 
dream  so  clinging  to  him  that  he  seemed  unable  to  let 
her  out  of  his  sight  He  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  she  on  a 
low  stool  at  his  feet,  her  hands  clasped  in  his,  her  eyes 
uplifted  anxiously  to  his  disturbed  face,  her  own  quite 
colorless. 

"  You  are  better  now,  grandpapa,"  she  was  saying. 
"  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  that  terrible  dream  was  ?" 

The  bare  memory  of  the  dream  made  him  sliudder, 
and  tighten  his  clasp  until  her  little  hands  ached. 

"  O  my  darling,  it  was  only  the  great  troubles  of 
my  life  haunting  me  in  my  sleep.    The  horrible  fear 


:  !i. 


70 


BA  TTLINQ     WITH     FA  TE. 


i ; 


111 


•!i 


that  never  leaves  me,  niglit  or  day,  realized  in  my 
dreams." 

"  Tlie  ]iorril>le  fear !  Oh,  grandpapa,  what  do  you 
mean  ?     AVhat  is  it  you  are  afraid  of  ?" 

"Don't  ask  nic !"  exclaimed  tlie  old  man,  trembling 
at  her  words.  "  Don't  ask  me !  Yoi.  will  know  it  too 
Boon,  aiiil  it  will  riii;!   \ai7  iiie  ..>,■  it 'las  mined  mine." 

"  Grandpapa,  is  it  for  •  \g  or  for  yourself  you  fear?'' 

"  For  mjself  ?"  he  echoed.  Do  }o,i  think  any  feai 
for  myself  could  trouble  me  like  this  ?  My  life,  at  the 
best,  is  near  its  close.  Could  any  fear  for  mj^i^lf,  do 
you  think,  disturb  the  few  days  that  are  left  like  this  ? 
No,  it  is  for  you — for  you,  my  cherished  darling — that 
I  fear,  and  one  of  tlie  greatest  horrors  of  all  is  to  have 
to  tell  3'ou  what  that  fear  is !" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Eulalie's  face  could  not 
grow  whiter  than  it  was,  but  the  great  black  eyes 
were  unnaturally  dilated.  Through  it,  all  this  dark, 
troubled  mystery,  she  was  trying  to  keep  calm,  all  for 
his  sake. 

"  You  spoke,  grand^'apa,"  she  said,  "  of  my  being 
torn  from  you.     Could  any  one  in  the  world  do  that  ?" 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  but  his  face  was  so  full  of 
anguish  that  she  dared  not  look  again. 

"  Heaven  pity  you,  my  poor  girl,  they  could  I 
You  are  my  dead  son's  only  child,  but  I  should  bo 
powerless  to  prevent  it !     If  all  the  wealth  I  possess 


BAT  T UNO     WITH    FATE. 


77 


could  5RVC  you,  I  would  opeu  my  hands  and  let  it  flow 
out  liL'^  water.     I  could  d'c  lia}>py,  leaving  y( 
less,  a:  1  knowing  you  were  safe." 


g  you  peuni- 

"  Siie !  Saf'^  from  what  ?"  she  repeated,  in  vague 
horroi 

"From  a  fato  '^cadful  to  think  of — from  a  f ato 
the  fear  of  which  is  shortening  my  life." 

"  G]'andpapa !"  she  broke  out,  passionately,  "  this  is 
cruel !  You  frighten  me  to  death  with  vague  terrors, 
wdien  I  could  far  better  bear  the  truth  !  Tell  me  what 
I  have  to  dread — the  truth  will  be  easier  to  bear  than 
this  horrible  suspense !" 

"Not  now!  Not  now!"  he  cried  out,  imploring' •. 
"  O  my  Eulalie !  I  Co  not  mean  to  be  cruel !  If  1  hav  > 
said  this  much,  it  is  only  to  prepare  you  for  the  truth. 
If  this  intolerable  pum  at  the  heart.and  this  blinding 
giddiness  of  the  head  mean  what  I  think  they  do,  my 
time  is  very  short.  Rest  content,  my  darling,  in  a  very 
few  weeks  you  shall  know  all !" 

"  Only  tell  me  one  thing,"  she  pleaded,  with  new 
energy ;  "  have  I  enemies  ?  Is  there  any  one  in  tho 
world  I  have  cause  to  fear  ?" 

She  listened  breathlessly  for  the  answer,  her  great 
wild  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 

"Yes,  there  is  one,  a/ id  only  one,  whom  you  liavo 
intenscst  cause  to  fear.  It  is  the  dread  of  meeting  this 
one  enemy  that  has  caused  me  to  keep  you  secluded — 


f;  (.■ 


■v\ 


78 


BATTLING     WITn    FATE. 


that  lias  caused  mo  to  wish  you  so  ardently  to  bury 
yourself  in  a  convent !  I  have  been  battling  with  ft\te 
for  the  past  eighteen  years,  and  yet  I  know  it  is  all  iu 
vain.  I  may  take  what  precautions  I  please ;  I  may 
seclude  you  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  world  ;  and 
yet  when  the  time  comes  you  and  that  man  will 
meet  1" 

"  Hitherto  I  have  never  seen  him,  then  ?" 
*'No — that  is,  since  you  were  an  infant." 
"  Then,  grandpapa,  how  should  he  ever  know  me  ?" 
The  old  man  looked  at  her  with  infinite  pity  in  his 
eyes. 

"  My  poor  child  !  I  will  show  you  here  !^' 
lie  drew  from  around  his  ncclv  a  thin  gold  chain, 
with  a  locket  attached.     He  touched  the  spring  and 
handed  her  the  locket. 

It  contained  two  portraits — one  of  a  bright,  boyish 
handsome  face ;  the  other,  dark  and  beautiful,  tho 
pictured  image  of  the  living  face  looking  down  npon 
it.     Under  each  was  a  name,  "  Arthur — Eulalie." 

"  It  is  your  mother  and  father,  my  darling !"  he  said. 
"  Look  at  your  mother's  face.  Do  you  not  think  that 
any  one  who  ever  saw  that  face  in  life  would  recognize 
you,  her  living  image  ?" 

"And  her  name  was  Eulalie,  too.  I  never  knew 
that  before.  '  Eulalie — Arthur  I'  My  father's  name 
was  Arthur  ?" 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


79 


"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Rohan,  sorrowfully.     "  His  name 


was 


Art! 


iiir 


jj 


(( 


Artliur  ! — Arthur !"  eho  repeated  softly.     "  I  like 


5> 


the  name. 

"  You  like  it,  Eulalie.  Is  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
father  you  have  uever  seen,  or  the  young  man  down- 
stairs, whom  you  have  seen  ?" 

"  Oh,  grandpapa !"  was  Eulalie's  reproachful  cry. 

*'  My  dear  little  girl,  I  can  read  your  heart  plainer, 
perhaps,  than  you  can  yourself.  Yon  must  not  fall  in 
with  this  young  man,  Eulalie.  It  will  be  folly — worse 
than  folly — madness — for  you  ever  to  lot  youreelf  love 
him  or  any  one  else." 

"  Grandpapa !"  rather  indignantly,  "  I  never  thought 
of  falling  in  love  with  him  !" 

"  No,  my  poor  dear,  you  never  thought  of  it,  I 
dare  say.  But  it  may  happen  for  all  that ;  and  you 
cannot  prevent  him  from  admiring  and  loving  you. 
That  is  why  I  wished  you  to  return  to  Eden 
Lawn  the  other  night — that  is  why  I  wish  you  to 
gc  still." 

"Would  it  be  so  very  dreadful,  then,"  Eulalie 
asked,  a  little  embarrassed,  and  not  looking  up,  "  if  he — 
if  I — I  mean  if  we  did  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Rohan,  solemnly.  "  It  would  be 
dreadful,  circumstanced  as  you  are.  I  shall  tell  you  all 
very  soon  ;  until  then,  you  must  neither  give  nor  take 


'  >   1 


<<l 


■I 


:  1 


^i  Ni 


li  i 

^M 

1 

I  HI 


I  '!■ 


I  '■ 

if 


if 


ao 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


any  promises  from  any  man.  When  wliat  I  liave  to 
tell  is  told,  yon  shall  be  as  free  as  air — you  shall  do 
vhat  yon  please,  go  where  you  like,  act  as  your  own 
conscience  mny  suggest.  And  now  go  to  your  room, 
my  darling,  for  it  is  very  late,  and  remember  me  in 
your  innocent  prayers !" 

He  kissud  her,  and  led  her  to  the  door ;  and  as  she 
walked  down  the  liall  to  her  room,  she  heard  him  lock 
himself  in.  She  was  hopelessly  mystified  and  diized, 
poor  child  !  and  the  blight  of  that  fearful  uid^nown  se- 
".ret  was  falling  upon  her  already.  She  might  go  to 
her  room,  but  it  was  to  cry  herself  to  sleep  like  a  little 
-child. 

Mr.  Kohan  did  not  appear  in  the  drawing-room  for 
the  remainder  of  the  week.  The  excitement  of  that 
might  threw  him  into  a  kind  of  low  nervous  fever,  that 
kept  him  in  his  own  apartment,  and  kept  Eulalie  there 
most  of  the  time,  too.  She  was  the  best  and  most  de- 
voted of  nurses,  reading  and  singing  to  him,  scarcely 
«^ver  from  his  side.  But  Arthur  Sutherland  sa^ '  the 
sad,  pale  face  that  he  remembered  so  brightly  beauti- 
ful, and  pitied  her  every  day  more  and  more. 

lie,  too,  was  battling  with  fate,  and  failing  as  mis- 
erably as  we  all  do  in  that  hopeless  struggle.  For  he 
found  himself  thinking  a  great  deal  more  of  this  Creole 
heiress  than  was  at  all  w'ise  or  prudent,  considering  he 
was   not   in   love   Avith   her,  and   never  meant  to  be. 


Tl 

cu 


an 


BATTLING      WITH     FATK, 


81 


Those  liirge,  stiirry  black  oycs  ;  those  iloatini^  iiik-l)lac'k 
curls,  Buft  and  feathery  us  floss-silk  ;  that   dainty,  fairy 
form,  and  that  soft,  sweet  voi(!e,  haunted  him  too  much 
by  ni^ht  and  by  diiy  for  his  own  peace  of  mind,     lie 
wanted  to  be  true  to  his  blue-eyed,  f^olden-haired  ideal ; 
he  wanted  to  go  back  to  New  York  and  many  ^[iss 
Vansell.     And,  wanting  to  do  all  this,  he  yet  lingered 
and  lingered  at  ]Vrai)lewo(xl,  and  found  it  more  and 
more  difficult  every  day  to  tear  himself  from  the  en- 
chanted spot,     lie  did   not  want   to  nuirry  a   woman 
with  big  l)lack  eyes  and  a  dark  skin  ;  he   did  not  want 
to  marry  a  foreigner ;  he  did  not  want  to  marry  any 
one  about  whom  there  hung  the  faintest  sliadow  of 
mystery  or  secrecy.     And  yet  he  lingered  at  Maple- 
wood,  fascinated  by  that  lovely  Creole  face,  and  the 
epell  of  that  musical  voice,   watching  for  her  coming 
with  feverish  impatience,  and  chafing  at  her  absence  or 
delay.     Tie  did  not  want  to  fall  in  love  with  her  him- 
self, but  he  hated  Philip  Sutherland  with  a  most  savage 
hatred  for  having  had  that  misfortune.     He  could  not 
help  admiring  her,  he  said  to  himself ;  no  one  could, 
any  more  than  they  could  help  admiring  an  exquisite 
painting  or  the  mai'ble  Yenus  de  Medicis  ;  but  he  meant 
to  be  faithful  to  the  .'Id  ideal,  and  make  his  pale  saint 
with  the  halo  of  g(jldei    hair  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland. 
Was  he  not  as  good  as  engaged  to  Isabel  ?     What  busi- 
ness had  those  raven  tresses  and  dark  oriental  eyes  per- 
4* 


r;: 


83 


BATTLING     WITH    FATE. 


]>ctn(illy  to  come  and  disturb  aL  his  waking  and  sleep- 
ing dreams  ?  He  battled  conscientiously  with  his  fate 
— or  fancied  he  did — and  the  more  he  battled,  the  more 
and  more  he  thou":ht  of  Eulalis  1 


FATE'S    VICTORY. 


83 


1'  ^'■ 


CHAPTER  Y. 

fate's  victory. 

ISr  the  very  plain  parlor  of  a  very  unpretend- 
ing house,   in  a  very  quiet  street  of  that 
lively    little    tree-shaded     city,    Portland, 
Maine,  there  sat,  one  lovely   afternoon  in 
June,  a  woman  busily  sewinf^. 

The  woman  sat  at  the  open  window,  and  the  win- 
dow commanded  an  exquisite  view  of  beautiful  Casco 
Bay,  but  she  never  once  stopped  in  her  work  to  glance 
at  it.  Perhaps  she  had  no  time  to  spare,  perhaps  Casco 
Bay  was  a  very  old  song,  or  perhaps  its  sunlit  beauty 
was  beyond  the  power  of  her  soul  to  appreciate.  She 
eat  and  stitched  and  stitched  and  stitched,  with  dull, 
monotonous  rapidity,  on  the  chiUFs  dress  she  was  mak- 
ing, a  faded  and  fretted-looking  creature,  with  pale 
hair  and  eyes,  and  shrunk,  thin  features.  She  was 
dressed  in  rusty  bhiek,  and  wore  a  widow's  cap,  and  her 
name  was  Mrs.  Sutherland — Lucy  Sutherland's  mother. 
Two  or  three  small  child I'cn  rolled  over  on  the  thread- 
bare carpet,  playing  noisily  with  rag  dolls  and  with  tops, 
and  two  or  three  more  of  a  larger  growth  were  down 


'  •■^■1  iMrfi 

'     If    S  .    Bl 


.fflHs! 


m 


I   i' 


■*-' 


1' 


. 


'rjf» 


:■!,■ 


Hi. 


FAT  ITS     VICTORY. 


¥%'■ 
II 


ill  the  Ivitclien,  regaling  themselves  with  bread  and 
meat,  tifter  school. 

It  needed  no  r.ccond  glance  at  the  worn-out  carpet, 
the  rheumatic  cliairs,  the  sliabbj^  sofa,  the  cracked 
looking-glass,  and  tlie  seedy  garments,  to  tell  you  this 
family  were  very  poor.  They  were  very  poor,  and  of 
that  class  of  poor  most  to  be  pitied,  wlio  have  seen 
"  better  days,"  poor  souls  !  and  who  struggle,  and  pinch, 
and  tell  lies,  and  eat  their  hearts  out,  trying  to  keep  up 
appearances.  They  were  in  mourning  for  the  husband 
and  father,  half-brother  to  tlie  late  James  Sutherland, 
Esqnire,  of  Maplewood,  as  Mrs.  Sutherland  never  wa. 
tired  tellin»i:  her  neii^hbors. 

They  had  been  very  poor  in  his  lifetime,  for  he  was 
of  dissipated  habits  ;  but  they  were  poorer  now,  and 
Mrs.  Sutherland  had  no  time  to  admire  Oasco  Bav,  for 
patching  and  darning,  and  making  and  mending,  from 
week's  end  to  week's  end.  There  were  six  besides 
Lucy  ;  and  Lucy  and  her  salary,  as  paid  companion  to 
the  lady  of  Maplewood,  was  their  chief  support. 

Lucy  Sutherland's  life  had  been  a  hard  one.  Six 
years  before  this  June  afternoon  she  had  gone  first  to 
live  at  Maplewood — gone  to  eat  the  bitter  bread  of  de- 
pendence. But  Lucy  Sutherland  was  morbidly  proud  ; 
Mi's.  Sutherland,  of  Maplewood,  haughty  and  over- 
l>eiiring;  and  Augusta  too  much  given  to  lly  out  into 
gusts  of  l>ad   temper.     Of  course,    the  cold  pride  and 


t 

SI 


FATE'S     VICTORY. 


85 


tlic  liot  temper  clashed  at  once,  and  Mrs.  SutlierLuid 
swept  storniily  in,  boxed  Augusta's  cars.  a  scolded 
Lucy  stoutly.  Lucy  retorted  with  flashing  eyes,  and 
l)anged  the  door  in  the  great  hidy's  face,  packed  up  her 
belongings,  and  was  home  before  niglit.  But  tliere 
were  too  many  at  home  ah-eady.  Lucy  went  out  once 
more  as  a  nursery -governess  ;  and  fo^'  four  yeai's  led 
the  wretched,  shivish  life  that  nursery-governesses 
mostly  lead.  She  was  perpetually  losing  her  place,  and 
perpetually  trying  the  next  one,  and  only  seeming  to 
find  each  worse  than  the  last.  Four  years  of  this  sort 
of  life  broke  down  and  subdued  Lucy  Sutherland  enough 
even  to  suit  Mrs.  James  Sutherland,  of  Maplewood. 
That  lady,  linding  herself  very  lonely  when  Augusta 
went  away  to  school,  and  remembering  how  useful  she 
had  found  Lucy,  presented  herself  at  the  house  in 
PortLmd  on.:,  day,  and  asked  her  to  come  back.  Lucy 
was  out  of  place,  as  usual.  Mrs.  Sutherland  offered  a 
higher  figure  than  she  liad  ever  received  as  nursery- 
governess,  and  Lucy,  neither  forgiving  nor  forgetting 
the  past,  took  prudence  for  her  counselor,  and  went 
back.  ^Vhatever  she  had  to  endure,  she  did  endure, 
with  stony  patience — her  heart  rebelling  fiercely  agaiyst 
destiny,  but  her  lips  never  uttering  one  complaint.  She 
had  been  the  chief  suppoi-t  of  the  family  since  then, 
not  through  any  very  strong  sisterly  love,  but  because 
of  that  very  pride  that  would  have  tliem  keep  up  ap- 


1     i 


'  m 


JiM'  \ 


if-  •  i 


V    % 


86 


FATE'S     VICTORY. 


I 


pearances  to  the  last  gasp.  She  did  not  visit  them  very 
often ;  slie  wrote  to  lier  mother  once  a  month,  a  brief 
letter,  inclosing  a  remittance  ;  and  she  endured  her  life 
with  hard,  icy  coldness,  that  was  any  thing  but  the  virtue 
of  resignation. 

Mrs.  Sutherland,  sitting  sewing  this  afternoon,  wag 
lit^ toning  for  the  postman's  knock.  It  was  the  time  for 
Lucy's  letter,  and  the  remittance  was  truly  needed. 
Wliilc  she  watched,  a  cab  drove  up  to  the  door ;  a  tall 
young  lady,  dressed  in  black,  and  wearing  a  black  gauze 
vail  over  her  face,  alighted,  and  rang  the  bell.  The 
next  moment,  there  was  a  shout  from  the  girls  and  boys 
below  of — 

"Oh,  mamma !     Here's  Lucy !" 

Mrs.  Sutherland,  dropping  her  work,  met  her  eldest 
daughter  in  the  doorway,  and  kissed  her. 

The  children,  playing  on  the  floor,  suspended  their 
game  to  flock  around  their  sister.  Lucy  l«ssed  them 
one  after  the  other,  and  then  pushed  them  away. 

"  There !  there !"  she  said,  hnpatiently.  "  Run 
away,  now.  Bessy,  don't  stand  on  my  dress.  Franky, 
go  along  to  your  tops,  and  let  me  alone.  I  am  hot,  and 
tired  to  death  !" 

She  dropped  into  a  seat,  still  pushing  them  away — 
her  face  looking  pale,  and  haggard,  and  careworn. 
Mrs.  SuthcriiUid  saw  Iier  daughter  was  in  no  very 
sweet  temper,  ana  hustled  the  noisy  flock  out  of  the 


FATE'S     VICTORY. 


a? 


room,  and  came  back  and  sat  down  with  a  face  full  of 
anxiety. 

"  AVhat  is  it,  Lucy  dear  ?"  she  asked.  "  Ilave  you 
left  your  Aunt  Anna's  again  ?" 

They  were  very  much  alike,  this  mother  and 
daiigliter — alike  outwardly  and  inwardly.  Lucy 
Sutherland  looked  at  her  mother,  and  broke  into  a 
hard  laugh. 

"  Your  welcome  is  not  a  very  cordial  one,  mamma ! 
You  ask  me  if  I  have  lost  my  place — hasn't  that  a 
very  pleasant  housemaid-like  sound? — l)eforc  yon 
invite  me  to  take  off  my  bonnet.  I  suppose  if  I 
had  lost  my  place  you  would  find  me  another  be- 
fore dark." 

Mrs.  Sutherland  took  up  her  sewing  and  recom- 
menced. 

"  Take  off  your  bonnet,  Lucy,"  she  said.  "  We 
have  not  much ;  but,  whatever  we  have,  you  ari 
welcome  to  your  sljare  of  it.  iluve  ycm  quarreled  wit  i 
your  Aunt  Anna  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  not  <:\\\'Affdi^A  Wi^  ray  Aunt  An'^.  ,  ** 
replied  Lucy,  with  sneering  emp^^airijj ;  ft>r  Lucy  i  .  f 
deigned  to  call  her  rich  relative  aurj^  ^  *'  iy»*t  my  -  mt 
Anna  has  sent  me  home  on  her  service  for  f/m^*)t'  /  not 
to  be  had  in  St„  Mary's,  and  which  it  is  not  wo rb  lile 
sending  for  to  Boston.  I  think  I  will  take  oli'  my 
bonnet,  mother,  since  you  otc  so  pressing  1" 


I  i 


W 


Mf 


■•J 


!    i 


ft     }         ; 


< 


ll  ]. 

^y 

Jvi 

88 


FATE' 8     VICTORY. 


Mrs.  Sutlierland  took  no  notice  of  her  daughter's  ill- 
tcnipcr.  Slic  was  too  much  dependent  on  Lucy  to 
afford  the  hixiiry  of  quarreling  with  her ;  so  she  hiid 
aside  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  produced  some 
crackers  and  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  said  Lucy,  impatiently. 
"  Drink  the  wine  yourself,  mamma,  you  look  as  if  you 
needed  it.     AVliat  arc  you  making  there  ?" 

"  A  ch'css  for  Fanny  !  The  child  is  in  tattei's,  and 
not  fit  to  go  to  school.     I  had  to  get  it  on  credit." 

"Pay  for  it  with  this,"  said  Lucy,  Mirowing  her 
wallet  into  her  mother's  Lip.  "  Tlicre  is  fifty 
dollars.  Mrs.  Sutherland  is  charitable  cnougli  to  give 
me  all  her  old  black  silks  that  are  too  good  to  give 
to  the  cook,  and  I  make  tliem  over  and  save  my 
money." 

"  IIow  long  are  you  going  to  stay  with  us,  Lucy 
dear  ?" 

"  Yery  delicately  put,  mamma !  But  don't  be  afraid, 
I  shall  not  trouble  you  long.  I  return  to-morrow  by  the 
earliest  train." 

"  And  what  is  the  news  fro2n  Maplewood  ?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Sutherland.     "  Has  Arthur  returned  f 

"  Yes,  Arthur  has  returned." 

She  spoke  so  sullenly,  and  with  a  face  that  dark- 
ened so  ominously  that  her  mother  looked  up  from  her 
work  once  more. 


FATE'S     VICTORY, 


89 


'  f  ^ 


"  How  long  is  it  Bince  he  came  ?"  she  asked,  almost 
afraM  to  ask  anything  in  her  daughter's  present  frame 
of  mind. 

"  Not  a  month  yet ;  but  long  enough  to  make  a 
fool  of  himself!  lie  and  Phil  Sutherland  came 
together  ;  and  Phil,  perhaps,  is  the  greatest  fool  of  the 
two.     lie  is  the  noisiest,  at  least." 

"  My  dear  Lucy  !  how  strangely  you  talk !  What 
do  you  mean  ?  In  what  manner  are  they  making  fools 
of  themselves  ?" 

Lucy  Sutherland  laughed  a  hard  and  bitter  laugh ; 
but  her  eyes  were  flashing  blue  ilamc,  and  her  li]3S  were 
white  with  passion. 

'•'  Oh,  about  a  pretty  little  puppet  they  have  thore, 
mother — a  wax  doll  with  a  little  waist,  and  dark  skin, 
and  big  vacant  black  eyes — an  insipid  little  nonentity, 
who  can  lisp  puerile  baby-talk  about  grandpapa  and 
Cuba,  and  who  is  to  be  heiress  of  countless  thousands. 
They  are  making  fools  of  themselves  about  her, 
mamma.  It  is  for  this  little  foreign  sim2:)leton  that 
they  are  both  going  mad  !" 

Mrs.  Sutherland  was  a  woman  of  penetration,  but 
not  of  much  tact.  She  saw  at  once  that  something 
more  than  mere  feminine  spleen  was  at  the  bottom  of 
this  bitter,  reckless  speech,  and  was  unwise  enough  to 
utter  her  thoughts. 

"  I    know    you   always  liked   Arthur,"   she   said. 


i  ' 


V  I,: 


t  i 


R.-1 


90 


FATE'8     VICTORY. 


"  And  I  hoped,  when  lie  returned,  and  yon  were  thrown 
60  much  together,  it  might  be  a  match.  Lucy  I  Good 
IloavcTis !" 

She  started  \\\i  suddenly  in  consternation  ;  for  Lucy, 
at  the  words,  had  broken  into  a  violent  fit  of  hysterical 
Bobbing.  It  was  so  unexpected — so  foreign  to  the 
nature  of  one  so  self -restrained  and  calm,  tliis  stormy 
gust  of  passionate  weeping,  that  her  mother  could  only 
Btand  and  look  on  in  blank  dismay. 

It  did  not  last  long,  it  was  too  violent  to  last.  Lucy 
Sutherland  looked  up,  and  dashed  the  teai*s  fiercely 
a^vay. 

''  '^herc!"  she  said.  "  It  is  all  over,  and  you  need 
not  wear  /  t  frightened  face.  It  is  not  likely  to 
happen  again.  I  am  a  fool,  I  dare  say ;  but  I  think  I 
Bhould  go  mad  if  I  could  not  cry  out  sometimes  like 
this.  I  am  not  madv  of  wood  or  stone,  after  all, 
though  I  gain  credit  for  it ;  and  this  is  all  that  keeps 
me  from  going  wdld." 

"My  dear  girl !"  her  mother  anxiously  said.  "My 
dear  Lucy,  there  is  something  more  than  common  the 
cause  of  this.     Tell  mother  !" 

"It  is  only  this,  then,"  cried  Lucy,  passionately, 
"  that  I  hate  Arthur  Sutherland,  and  I  hate  Eulalie 
Bohan ;  and  I  hate  myself  for  being  the  wretched, 
pitiful  fool  I  am  !" 

Mrs,   Sutherland   listened  to  this  wildly-desperate 


d 

tl 

1 


FATE'S     VIC  TORT. 


n 


ill 


epcecli  in  grave  silence ;  "nd,  when  it  was  over,  sat 
down  and  resumed  lier  sewing,  still  in  silence.  Iler 
woman's  penetration  saw  the  truth — that  her  quiet 
daughter  was  furiously  jealous  of  Ihis  foreign  beauty. 

"  She  always  was  more  or  less  in  love  with  Arthur," 
the  mother  mused.  "  And  the  ruling  passion  of  her 
life  was  to  be  mistress  of  Maplewood.  She  has  found 
out  liow  hopeless  her  dream  has  been,  and  this  insane 
outcry  is  the  natural  result.  It  is  not  like  Luny,  and 
it  will  soon  be  over." 

Mrs.  Sutherland  was  right.  The  first  wild  out- 
burst was  over,  and  Lucy  was  becoming  her  old  self 
again. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  that  I  am  going  mad. 
mamma,"  she  said,  after  a  pause ;  "  and  I  think  I 
should,  if  I  could  not  cry  out  to  some  one.  I  wanted 
to  be  rich.  I  wanted  to  be  Arthur  Sutherland's  wife, 
for  your  sake  and  the  children's  sake,  as  well  as  for  my 
own.  But  that  is  all  over  now.  He  will  marry  this 
Creole  heiress  before  long,  if  something  does  not  occur 
to  prevent  it." 

"  What  should  occur  to  prevent  it  ?"  replied  her 
mother. 

"  Arthur  Sutherhi  d's  own  pride.  There  is  some- 
thing very  strange,  to  say  the  very  least,  and  very 
suspicious,  in  the  manner  of  tliis  girl's  grandfather, 
who  seems  to  be  her  only  living  relative.     There  is 


w 


vu 


..  ( 


w 


ill 


ji.  A 


■\   i^ 


i   ,..    i 


13 . 


Vif'il 


02 


FATE'S     VIC  TORT, 


some  mystery — some  guilt,  I  :im  2)ositive — in  his  past 

history,  wliicl I  miiy  Ije  visited  yet  on  liis  ^nmddaugliter. 

He  lives  in   constant   dreud    of    something,  and  that 

something  threatens  her  whom  he  iihjlizes  as  only  tiieso 

old  dotards  overdo  idolize.     ]\Iy  suspicions  have  been 

aroiised  from  tlie  iirst ;  and  if  I  fail  to  find  out  what  it 

means,  it  wjU  be  no  fault  of  mine.     I  hate  you,  Eulalio 

Kolian" — she    exclaimed,    clenching    her    little   hand, 

while  her  l)lue  eyes  Hashed — "I  hate  you,  and  Heaven 

lieln  -"'ou  if  over  you  are  in  my  p(jwer  !" 

*  -x-  -X-  -X-  -x-  -x- 

In  the  misty  twilight  of  the  evening  following  this, 
Lucy  Sutherland  returned  to  Maplewood.  There  was 
a  dinner-party  at  tlie  house,  and  the  family  and  the 
guests  were  yet  at  table.  Sarah,  the  liousemaid,  told 
Miss  Lucy  this,  while  arranging  a  little  repast  of  strong 
tea  and  toast  in  the  young  lady's  room,  and  further  in- 
formed her  that  Mr.  Rohan  was  not  yet  well  enough  to 
appear  in  the  dining-room,  but  that  Miss  Ilohan  was 
down-stairs,  and  was  looking  beautiful.  Even  the  very 
servants  (she  thought,  bitterly)  were  bewitched  by  the 
black  eyes  and  exquisite  face  of  the  Creole  heiress ; 
while  she  was  looked  ujoon,  perhaps,  as  almost  one  of 
themseb''es. 

Lucy  drank  her  tea  and  ate  her  toast,  and  made  her 
toilet,  and  descended  to  the  drawing-room  to  report  the 
success  of  her  mission  to  the  lady  of  the  house.  Eulalie 


\v 

la| 
m 
ell 

1h 


FATE' 8     VICTORY. 


93 


was  at  tlie  piano,  looking  beautiful  indeed  in  amber 
Bilk,  luid  witli  rlcli  gems  flashing  tlirougli  the  misty 
lace  on  her  neck  and  arms.  There  was  a  tinge  of 
melancholy  in  the  large  dark  eyes,  that  added  the  oidy 
charm  her  beauty  lacked.  And  Lucy  Suthorhmd  hated 
her  for  that  beauty,  and  that  costly  dress,  and  those 
rare  gems,  with  tenfold  intensity.  She  knew  how  her 
own  commonplace  prettinessof  features  and  complexion 
paled  into  insignificance  beside  the  tropical  splendor  of 
such  dusky  beauty  as  this  ;  and  she  envied  her  as  only 
one  jealous  woman  can  envy  another,  with  an  envy  all 
the  more  furious  for  every  outward  sign  being  sup 
pressed. 

Lucy  reported  her  successful  mission  to  Mrs. 
Sutherland,  and  then  retired  to  a  remote  corner,  as  a 
discreet  companion  should.  She  saw  the  gentlemen 
enter  the  room  presently,  and  flock  about  the  piano, 
and  press  Miss  Kolian  to  sing.  Philip  Sutherkmd  was 
at  their  head ;  but  Arthur,  seeing  the  instrument 
besieged,  went  and  sat  down  by  his  mother.  There 
were  no  lady-guests  for  him  to  devote  himself  to,  and 
the  gentlemen  were  all  engrossed  by  the  black-eyed 
pianiste.  Lucy's  remote  corner  was  not  so  very  far  cU 
but  that,  by  straining  her  ears,  she  could  hear  tlio  con- 
versation between  mother  and  son  ;  and  Lucy  did  not 
scruple  to  listen.  The  talk  at  first  was  desultory 
enough.      Mrs.    Sutherland    crocheted,    and    her    son 


.'i 


!■,  ■ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


IttlM    |2.5 

|50     *^~        ■■■ 

■^  1^    12.2 


III  1.8 

^1^ 


V] 


<^ 


/i 


V 


i? 


/ 


-^^ 


Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


73  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4S03 


%" 


^ 


<^ 


o 


94 


FATE'S    VIGT0R7. 


toyed  with  her  colored  silks  and  made  rambling  re- 
marks, but  his  gaze  never  wandered  from  the  piano. 

"  He  is  thinking  about  her,"  thought  Lucy,  "  though 
he  speaks  of  tlie  heat  and  the  dinner,  and  he  will  begin 
to  talk  of  her  presently." 

Lucy  was  right.  Arthur  was  thinking  of  the 
Cuban  beauty,  as  he  seemed  always  to  be  doing  of  late. 
He  had  no  idea  of  falling  in  love  with  her ;  it  was  the 
very  last  thing  he  wanted  to  do.  He  had  come  home 
determined  to  dislike  her — to  have  no  yellow-skinned 
heiress  forced  upon  him  by  his  mother ;  and  yet  here 
he  was  walking  into  the  trap  with  his  eyes  wide  open. 
He  despised  himself  for  his  weakness,  but  that  did  not 
make  him  any  stronger.  He  wished  his  mother  would 
broach  the  match-making  subject,  that  he  might  raise 
objections;  but  she  never  did.  Ho  wished  now  she 
would  begin  talking  of  her,  but  she  crocheted  away  aa 
serenely  as  if  match-making  had  never  entered  her 
head,  and  he  had  to  start  the  subject  himself. 

"  How  long  before  Mi .  Rohan  leaves  here  ?"  he 
asked,  carelessly. 

"  Not  for  months  yet,  I  trust,"  replied  his  mother ; 
"he  promised  to  sj^end  the  summer  with  us.  We 
should  miss  Eulalie  sadly." 

"  He  will  return  to  Cuba,  I  suppose,  when  he  does 
leave  here  ?" 

"  I  presume  so." 


sal 

bI 


FATE'S    VICTORY. 


05 


"  What  a  lonely  life  Miss  Rohan  must  lead  there !" 
said  Arthur,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  it  is  lonely,  poor  child.  Arthur," — looking 
np  suddenly,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm — "  why 
should  Miss  Rohan  return  to  Cuba  ?" 

"  It  is  coming,"  thought  Lucy  Sutherland,  setting 
her  teeth. 

"  Why  should  she  return,  mother  ?"  said  Arthur, 
coloring,  consciously,  while  he  laughed.  "  Why  should 
she  not  return  ?    It  is  her  home." 

"  I  said  why  should  Miss  Rohqn  return.  I  say  so 
still.  I  have  no  objection  to  Eulaiie's  going  to  Cuba — 
only  let  her  go  as  Mi*s.  Arthur  Sutherland." 

"  My  dear  mother !" 

Mrs.  Sutherland  smiled. 

"  That  astonished  look  is  very  well  feigned,  Arthur, 
but  it  does  not  deceive  me.  It  is  not  the  iiret  time  you 
have  thought  on  this  subject ;  though  why  it  should 
take  you  so  long  to  debate,  I  confess,  puzzles  me. 
There  never  was  such  a  prize  so  easily  to  be  won 
before.  If  you  do  not  bear  it  off,  some  one  else  will, 
and  that  speedily." 

"But,  my  dear  match-making  mamma,"  remon- 
strated her  son,  still  laughing,  "  I  do  not  like  prizes 
too  easily  won.  It  is  the  grapes  that  hang  above  one's 
head,  not  those  ready  to  drop  into  one's  mouth,  that 
we  long  for." 


06 


FATETS    VICTORY, 


li  I 


"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland,  gravely,  "  yon 
will  please  yourself.  While  you  are  struggling  for  the 
Bour  grapes  overhead,  some  wise  man  will  stop  in  and 
bear  off  the  prize  within  reach.  It  is  your  aifair,  not 
mine." 

She  closed  her  lips,  and  went  industriously  on  with 
her  work.  Arthur  looked  over  at  Miss  Rohan,  the 
shimmer  of  whose  amber  silk  dress  and  flashing  orna- 
ments he  could  see  between  the  dark  garments  of  the 
men  about  her. 

"After  all,  mother,"  he  said,  "is  not  your  castle 
built  on  very  empty  air?  I  may  propose  to  Miss 
Rohan,  and  be  refused  for  my  pains.  The  heiress  of  a 
millionaire  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking." 

"  Very  true  !  You  must  take  your  chance  of  that. 
But  you  know,  Arthur,  it  is  the  grapes  that  hang 
highest  you  prefer.  Perhaps  you  will  find  Miss  llohan 
beyond  your  reach  after  all." 

Her  son  made  no  reply  ;  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Lucy's  black  barege  dress,  and  crossed  over  to  where 
she  sat  at  once. 

"  Why,  Lucy,  I  didn't  know  you  had  returned,"  he 
cried.  "  You  come  and  go  like  a  pale,  noiseless 
shadow,  apjDcaring  and  disappearing  when  wo  least  ex- 
pect you." 

A  faint  angry  color  flushed  into  the  girl's  pale  face, 
but  Arthur  did  not  see  it  as  he  leaned  over  her  chair. 


FATE'S    VICTORY, 


97 


"  When  did  you  arrive  ?" 

"  About  an  hour  ago." 

"  And  how  did  you  find  the  good  people  of  Port- 
land? Your  mother  and  the  little  ones  are  well,  I 
trust." 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you !" 

"  You  should  have  made  them  a  longer  visit, 
Lncy.  It  is  rather  unsatisfactory  running  home, 
and—" 

He  stopped  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  his  own 
sentence.  He  had  been  watcliing  Eulalie  and  think- 
ing of  Eulalie  all  the  time  he  was  talking.  He  had 
seen  her  leave  the  piano  five  minutes  before,  and 
cross  to  the  open  windows  fronting  the  lawn,  and 
his  sister  take  her  place.  He  saw  lier  now  step 
through  one  of  the  windows,  and  disappear  in  the 
moonlight,  and  Philip  Sutherland  striding  after  her. 

Arthur's  brow  darkened,  and  his  face  flushed.  In 
some  strange,  magnetic  maimer  the  conviction  flashed 
upon  him  that  another  was  about  to  ask  for  the  prize 
he  would  not  seek.  If  Philip  Sutherland  should  suc- 
ceed !  He  turned  sick  and  giddy  at  the  thought,  and 
in  one  instant  the  scales  dropped  from  his  eyes,  and 
he  saw  the  palpable  truth.  He  loved  Eulalie  Rohan  ; 
and  what  he  felt  for  Isabel  Vansell  was  only  cahn, 
placid  admiration.  He  loved  this  glorious  little 
beauty ;  and  now  he  waa  on  the  point  of  losing 
6 


,>-'nr. 


■^ 


wm 


n 


m 


m 


•tt 


08 


FATE'S     VICTORY. 


her,  perhaps  forever!  "How  blessings  brighten 
as  they  take  their  flight."  In  that  moment  he  would 
liave  given  all  the  wealth  of  the  Sutherlands  and 
the  Rohans  combined  to  have  forestalled  his  cousin 
Philip. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "  will  you  come  out  for  a  walk  ? 
The  evening  is  too  lovely  to  be  lost  here." 

Lucy  Sutherland  silently  arose.  She  saw  his  ashen 
face,  and  read  his  thoughts  like  a  printed  book.  She, 
too,  by  that  mysterious  rapport,  guessed  Philip's 
errand,  and  from  her  heart  of  hearts  prayed  he  might 
succeed. 

The  group  gather^^d  around  the  piano  paid  no  at 
tention  to  them,  as  they  went  out  through  the  open 
window,  upon  the  lawn,  where  the  moonlight  lay  in 
silvery  sheets.  Silently,  and  by  the  same  impulse,  they 
turned  down  the  chestnut  avenue-  that  led  to  the  ter- 
race. Two  minutes  and  it  came  in  sight,  and  they  saw 
Eulalie  Rohan  standing  by  the  low  iron  railing,  her 
silk  dress  and  the  brilliants  she  wore  flashing  in  the 
moon's  rays,  and  the  tangled  black  ringlets  fluttering  in 
the  breeze.  She  wore  a  large  shawl,  for  she  was  a 
chilly  litt.'.e  creature ;  and,  even  in  that  supreme 
moment,  ^i^rthur  could  notice  how  gracefully  she  wore 
it,  and  how  unspeakably  lovely  the  dark  face  w^as  in 
the  pale  moonlight.  The  lilacs  waved  their  perfumed 
arms  about  her  head,  and  she  broke  off  fragrant  purplo 


^1 


V 


FATSrS    VICTORY. 


00 


bunches  as  she  watched  the  phicid  moonlit  ocean.  Ho 
saw  all  these  minor  details,  while  he  looked  at  Philip 
Sutherland  coming  up  to  her,  and  breaking  out 
vehemently  and  at  once  with  the  story  he  had  to  tell. 
Such  an  old,  old  story  ;  but  heard  for  the  first  time,  this 
June  night,  by  those  innocent  cars.  Arthur  Sutherland 
set  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fists,  and  felt  a  mad  im- 
pulse to  spring  upon  his  cousin  and  hurl  him  over  the 
iron-work  into  the  sea.  They  both  stood  still — Lucy 
nearly  as  white  as  her  companion,  but  as  calm  [is  stone, 
and  looked  at  tlie  scene.  They  were  too  far  off  to  hear 
what  was  said ;  but  in  the  bright  moonlight  they  saw 
Eulalie  turn  away,  and  cover  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  Philip  fall  down  on  his  knees  at  her  feet.  There 
was  white  despair  in  every  line  of  his  face,  and  they 
knew  what  his  answer  had  been. 

"  She  has  refused  him  !"  Arthur  cried.  "  Thank 
God !" 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  the  house,"  said  Lucy,  icily ; 
"  Miss  Rohan  might  take  us  for  eavesdroj^pers  if  she 
saw  us  liex'e." 

She  war  deadly  pale,  and  there  was  a  strange,  un- 
natural glitter  in  her  blue  eyes ;  but  Arthur  never 
once  looked  at  her  or  thought  of  her  as  they  walked 
back  to  the  house. 

"  I  will  ask  Eulalie  Kohan  to  be  m^  wife,  before  the 


li 


m 


ii^i 


m 


100 


FATETB    VI0T0R7. 


BUTi  goes  down  to-morrow,"  was  his  mental  detennina- 
tion  by  tlio  way. 

Miss  Rohan  returned  to  the  house  ten  minutes  after, 
lookini^  pale,  and  with  a  startled  look  in  her  great  dark 
eyes  tliat  roniindcd  Arthur  of  a  frightened  gazelle. 
She  quitted  tlie  drawing-room  almost  imiTiediately 
after,  to  see  if  her  grandfather  had  been  made  comfort- 
able for  tlie  night,  and  did  not  return ;  and  tlie  long 
drawing-room  became  all  at  once  to  Arthur  Sutherland 
as  empty  as  a  desert. 

It  was  late  when  the  guests  departed,  althougli 
their  host  was  the  rcn-erse  of  entertaining,  and  he  was 
free  to  go  out  and  let  the  cold  night-air  blow  away  the 
fever  in  his  veins.  He  felt  no  desire  to  sleep,  and  he 
wandered  aimlessly  through  the  far-spreading  grounds 
of  his  ancestral  liome,  tormented  by  conflicting  doubts, 
and  hopes,  and  fears. 

About  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  grassy  terrace, 
half-buried  in  a  jungle  of  tall  fern  and  radc  grass,  and 
shaded  by  gloomy  elm-trees,  there  was  tie  ruins  of  an 
old  summer-house.  A  lonely  and  forsaken  summer- 
house,  where  no  one  ever  went  now,  but  a  chair  of 
twisted  branches  and  a  rickety  table  showed  that  it 
once  had  its  day.  Lying  on  the  damp,  grass-grown 
floor  of  this  old  summer-house,  his  arms  folded  and  his 
face  resting  on  them,  lay  poor  Philip  Sutherland,  doing 
battle  with  his  despair. 


TOU)    IN    TUB    TWILIGHT, 


lot 


CHAPTER  VI. 


TOLD  IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 


m 


a 


WILL  propose  to  Eiilalie  to-morrow  1" 
was  Arthur  Sutherland's  last  thought,  as 
soinetime  in  the  small  houra  he  laid  his 
head  upon  his  pillow,  to  toss  about  rest- 
lessly until  daybreak. 

"  I  will  ask  her  to  be  my  wife  to-day  !'•  was  his 
first  thought  as  he  arose  in  the  morning.  "  There  is 
no  use  in  stniggliiig  against  destiny ;  and  it  is  my 
destiny  to  love  this  beautiful,  dark-eyed  creature  beyond 
anything  in  this  lower  world." 

The  heir  of  Maplewood  made  a  most  careful  toilet 
that  morning,  and  never  was  so  little  pleased  with  his 
success.  It  was  still  early  when  he  descended  the 
stairs,  and  passed  out  of  the  hall-door  to  solace  himself 
with  a  matutinal  cigar,  and  think  how  he  should  say 
what  he  had  to  say.  Conscience  gave  him  some 
twinges  still,  and  would  not  let  him  forgot  that  in  some 
manner  he  stood  pledged  to  Miss  Yansell,  and  that  it 
was  hardly  honorable  to  throw  her  over  like  this.     Tho 


'il 


*"l 


i-f 


¥ 


102 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIOUT. 


i!i 


Btill,  small  voice  was  so  clamorous  that  lie  turned 
suvaf^^c  at  last,  and  told  Conscience  to  mind  her  own 
business  and  let  him  alone.  After  that  Conscience  had 
no  more  to  say ;  and  he  went  off  into  long,  delicious, 
day-dreams  of  the  bright  future,  when  this  beautiful 
Creole  girl  should  be  his  wife. 

The  rini'ini^  of  the  breakfast  bell  awoke  him  from 
liis  castle-building.  lie  flung  away  his  cigar,  and  went 
into  the  house,  expecting  for  certain  to  find  Miss 
Ilohau  in  the  breakfast-room.  She  had  never  been 
absent  once  since  his  return  home.  The  sweet,  dark 
face,  shaded  by  that  glorious  fall  of  perfumed  hair,  and 
lit  by  those  starry  eyes,  had  always  shone  on  him 
across  the  damask  and  china  and  silver  of  the  breakfast 
service.  But,  do  thin^^s  ever  turn  out  in  this  world  as 
we  plan  them  ?  Eulalie  was  not  there.  His  mother 
and  sister  and  Lucy  alone  were  in  the  room.  As  he 
entered,  a  housemaid  came  in  at  an  opposite  door,  with 
Miss  Rohan's  compliments,  and  would  they  please  not 
to  wait  breakfast ;  she  had  a  headache,  and  would  not 
come  down. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  dispatched  a  cup  of  strong  tea  and 
some  toast  to  Miss  Hohan's  room  by  the  housemaid, 
and  the  quartet  sat  down  to  the  morning  meal.  A 
chill  of  disappointment  had  fallen  upon  Arthur.  She 
had  never  been  absent  before.  "VVas  it  an  omen  of  evil  ? 
lie  had  been  s.o  confident  of  meeting  her,  and  he  was 


TOLV    m    TUB    1  WILIOUT. 


103 


diHtippointed.    Was  this  disappointment  but  tlio  foro 
runner  of  a  still  greater  ? 

The  chill  seemed  contagious:  all  were  silent  and 
constrained;  and  the  breakfast  was  unspeakably  dismal. 
Mrs.  Sutherland  seemed  absent  and  preoccupied ;  Lucy 
sat  frigidly  mute ;  and  Augusta  was,  I  regret  to  say, 
intens'^ly  sulky.  Poor  Augusta  !  She  alone  knew  the 
secret  motive  prompting  that  postscript  inviting  Philip 
Sutherland  down  to  Maplewood ;  and  she  alone  knew 
how  cruelly  that  hidden  hope  had  been  disappointed. 
She  had  dressed  prettily,  and  looked  charming — or  at 
least  as  charming  as  that  snub  nose  of  hers  would  per- 
mit ;  and  it  had  been  all  in  vain.  How  could  Philip 
Sutherland  see  her  rosy  cheeks,  and  dimples,  and  round 
blue  eyes,  while  he  was  dazzled  and  blinded  by  the 
dark  splendor  of  that  Creole  face  ?  She  had  not  been 
a  spectator  of  that  moonlight  scene  on  the  grassy  ter- 
race ;  but  she  knew  as  well  as  Lucy  or  Arthur  what 
had  happened  last  night,  and  what  had  occasioned  the 
absence  of  Eulalie  and  Philip  this  morning.  There- 
fore, Miss  Sutherland  was  in  the  sulks,  and  had  red 
rims  round  her  blue  eyes,  and  that  poor  snub  nose 
swollen,  as  people's  will  when  they  cry  half  the 
night. 

The  meal  was  half  over  before  Mrs.  Sutherland, 
in  her  preoccupation,  missed  Philip,  and  inquired 
for  him. 


J 


i' 


I'i-] 


i 


! 


'  V  f 


!.l 


ft 

'V 


I'M 


104  TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIOUT. 

"  Philip  lias  gone,"  said  Lucy,  quietly. 

"  Gone  1  Gone  where  ?"  demanded  her  aunt, 
staring. 

"  Back  to  New  York,  I  presiinno.  He  left  very 
early  this  morning,  hefore  any  of  you  were  up." 

Mrs.  Sutherland  still  stared. 

"Back  to  New  York  so  suddenly  I  Arthur,  did  ho 
tell  you  he  was  going  ?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

"Where  did  you  see  him,  Lucy?"  inquired  the 
astonished  lady  of  the  house. 

"  Leaving  his  room  about  six  o'clock.  I  generally 
come  down-stairs  about  that  time  ;  and,  as  I  opened  my 
door,  I  encountered  him  quitting  his  room,  with  his 
traveling-bag  in  his  hand.  I  asked  him  where  he  was 
going,  and  he  answered,  *  To  perdition  I  Anywhere 
out  of  this  place  I'  " 

Lucy  repeated  Philip  Sutherland's  forcible  words 
as  calmly  as  if  it  had  been  the  most  matter-of-fact 
answer  in  the  world.  She  said  nothing  of  the  wildly- 
haggard  face  he  had  worn ;  but  a  blank  silence  fell  on 
all,  and  his  name  was  not  mentioned  again  until  tho 
dreary  meal  was  over. 

Arthur  Sutherland  passed  the  bright  morning- 
hours  in  aimless  wanderings  in  and  out  of  the  house, 
and  under  the  green  arcades  of  the  leafy  groves,  wait- 
ing impatiently  for  Miss  Eohan  to  appear.     He  waited 


hif 
El 


TVLD    IN    TUB!     TWILIGHT. 


103 


for  801110  lionrs  in  vain  ;  and,  wlien  nt  last  slic  did 
appear,  it  was  only  another  diHaj)p()iiitment.  lie  had 
sauntered  down  tliroiigh  tlie  oUi  orcliard,  idly  breakin*^ 
oil  twi«jp,  and  trying  to  read  the  inornin<^  paper,  when 
the  sound  of  carria<j;c-wheels  brought  hiin  back.  For 
his  pains,  ho  just  got  a  glimpse  of  hid  mother  and 
Enlalie  and  Mr.  Uohan,  an  the  caiTiage  rolled  away.  If 
iiidisposition  ])revented  Mr.  and  il*  •  Kohan  from  ap- 
pearing in  the  break  fast- room,  they  were  well  enough 
to  take  an  airing  in  the  carriage,  it  seemed. 

That  was  the  longest  day  Arthur  Sutherland  ever 
remembered  in  his  life.  lie  kept  wandering  aimlessly 
in  and  out,  smoking  no  end  of  cigars,  and  talking  by 
fits  and  starts  to  Lucy,  who  was  about  as  genial  and 
sympathetic  as  an  icicle.  The  first  dinner-bell  had  rung, 
and  the  long  red  lances  of  the  sun  set  were  slanting 
through  the  chestnuts  and  maples  when  the  carriage- 
party  returned.  They  all  went  up-stairs  at  once;  and 
Arthur  entered  the  dining-room  to  wait,  feverishly,  her 
entrance. 

There  was  a  letter  awaiting  Mr.  Kohan,  bearing  the 
Xew  York  postmark.  He  opened  it,  and  his  face 
clouded  as  he  read  it.  It  was  written  by  the  solicitor 
of  one  Mrs.  Lawrence,  who  lay  dangerously  ill,  and  re- 
questing him  to  come  to  New  York  at  once  if  he  wished 
to  see  her  before  slie  died. 

Mr.  Rohan  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  troubled  face. 
5* 


r  r 


I     * 


'I 


il: 


\t 


m 


I 


I'  I' 

il 


If'! 


f  i!|  i! 
li 


I 


H 


i[ 


100 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIGHT. 


Mrs.  Liiwrence  was  a  relati\  c — a  distant  one — but  his 
only  living  relative  save  his  granddaughter,  and  the  re- 
quest must  be  obeyed.  The  trouble  was  about  Eulalie. 
How  could  he  hurry  her  oil  on  such  short  notice,  and 
how  could  he  leave  her  behind  ?  lie  walked  up  and 
down  his  room  in  perturbed  thought,  revolving  the 
difficulty,  and  at  a  loss  whether  to  take  or  leave  her. 

"  She  does  not  wish  to  leave  this  place,"  he  thought ; 
"why  should  I  drag  her  away,  poor  child?  The  time 
has  coirie  for  her  to  know  all — dreadful  as  it  will  be  for 
nie  to  tell  it ;  why  not  leave  her  here  and  let  her  learn 
tlie  horrible  truth  when  I  am  gone?  It  would  break 
my  heart  to  see  her  first  despair  ;  if  I  let  her  iind  it  out 
in  my  absence,  the  shock  will  be  over  before  I  retum. 
Yes,  I  will  go,  and  Eulalie  shall  remain,  and  I  shall 
leave  in  writing  the  miserable  story  that  must  be  told. 
My  poor  darling !  my  poor  little  innocent  child  !  may 
heaven  help  you  to  bear  the  misery  of  your  lot !" 

The  second  bell  rang,  and  Mr.  Rohan  descended  to 
the  dining-room,  ti/ing  to  conceal  all  sign  of  agitation. 
jT's  granddaughter  was  there,  talking  to  Arthur  Suth- 
erland, whose  devoted  manner  there  was  no  mistaking. 
Tufc  signs  he  could  not  fail  to  read  deepened  the  old 
man's  trouble,  and  his  voice  shook  painfully  in  spite 
of  himself  as  he  announced  his  departure  next  day. 

Every  one  was  surprised.  Eulalie  uttered  a  little 
cry  of  distress. 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIQUT. 


10? 


"  Going  to  New  York,  grandpapa  ?  Are  you  going 
to  take  me  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,"  the  old  man  said ;  and  Arthur, 
who  had  turned  very  pale,  breathed  again.  "  You 
could  not  be  ready ;  and,  as  T  hope  to  return  in  a  week, 
it  would  not  be  worth  while." 

Almost  immediately  after  dinner,  Mr.  Rohan  re- 
turned to  his  room,  pleading  the  truth — letters  to 
write.  But  fate  had  declared  against  Arthur  that  day. 
Carriage-wheels  rattled  up  to  the  door  almost  instantly 
after,  and  some  half-dozen  of  his  mother's  most  inti- 
mate friends  came  in.  There  were  three  young  ladies, 
who  at  once  took  possession  of  Eulalic,  and  all  chance 
of  saying  what  he  had  to  say  was  at  an  end  for  that 
evening. 

Arthur  Sutherland  being  a  gentleman — what  is 
better,  a  Christian — did  not  swear ;  but  I  am  afraid  he 
wished  the  three  Misses  Albermarle  at  Jericho.  They 
were  tall  young  ladies,  with  voluminous  drapery 
and  balloon-like  crinoline,  and  his  little  black-eyed 
divinity  was  quite  lost  among  them.  The  oldest  Miss 
Albermarle  presently  made  a  dead  set  at  him,  and 
held  him  captive  until  it  was  time  to  depart ;  and 
then,  when  he  came  back  from  escorting  them  to  their 
carriage,  he  just  got  a  glimpse  of  Eulalie's  fairy  figure 
flitting  up-stairs  to  her  room. 

No,  to  her  grandfather's,  for  she  tapped  at  that  first 


m 


•<.    A  .'is 


108 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIGHT. 


hi 


to  say  good-night.  IIo  was  writing  still,  she  could  see, 
when  he  opened  the  door,  and  the  old  troubled  look 
was  at  its  worst.  He  would  not  let  her  come  in  ;  he 
kissed  her  and  dismissed  her,  and  returned  to  his 
writing. 

It  was  a  very  long  letter — written  slowly,  and  in 
deep  agitation.  Sometimes  his  tears  blistered  the 
paper ;  sometimes  he  threw  down  his  pen  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  wliile  his  whole  frame  was  con- 
vulsed. But  he  always  went  on  again — scratch,  scratch, 
scratch  ;  the  inexorable  pen  set  down  the  words,  and  as 
the  clock  was  striking  two  his  task  was  ended.  He 
folded  the  long,  closely-written  letter,  placed  it  in  an 
envelope,  addressed  to  his  granddaughter,  and  locked  it 
in  his  desk. 

"  My  poor,  poor  girl !"  he  said  ;  "  my  little  helpless 
lamb  I     How  will  you  live  after  reading  this  !" 

The  Cuban  millionaire  passed  a  miserably  restless 
night — too  much  agitated  by  what  he  had  written,  and 
the  memories  it  had  recalled,  to  sleep.  Not  that  the 
tragical  story  of  the  past  was  ever  absent  from  his  sleep- 
ing or  waking  fancy,  but  this  written  record  was  like 
the  tearing  open  of  half -healed  wounds.  He  could  not 
sleep  ;  and  he  was  glad  when  the  red  dawn  came  glim- 
mering into  the  east,  to  rise  and  go  uiit,  that  the  morn- 
ing breeze  might  cool  his  hot  head. 

The  sun  'irose  dazzlingly.     The  scent  of  the  long. 


■nm\ 
II 


TOLD    m    THE    TWILIGHT, 


109 


loiify  avenues,  the  saline  breath  of  the  sea,  was  so  re  • 
freshing,  the  songs  of  countless  birds  so  inspiriting,  that 
lie  could  hardly  fail  to  be  benefited  by  his  morning 
walk.  "When  the  breakfast-bell  rang,  he  entered  the 
house  with  a  face  even  brighter  than  usual,  and  gave 
Eulalie,  who  came  tripping  to  meet  him,  her  morning 
kiss,  with  a  smile. 

"  By  what  train  do  you  go  ?"  Mrs.  Sutherland  asked, 
as  they  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

"  The  twelve  o'clock.  I  have  a  little  business  to 
transact  in  Boston,  and  shall  remain  there  over  night." 

Mr.  Rohan  remained  in  the  drawing-room  the  best 
part  of  the  morning,  while  his  granddaughter  sat  at  the 
piano,  and  played  and  sang  for  him  incessantly.  She 
and  Mrs.  Sutherland  were  to  see  him  off  ;  and  just  be- 
fore it  was  time  to  start,  he  called  her  into  his  room, 
and  closed  the  door.  Eulalie  came  in,  looking  darkly- 
bewitching  in  a  little  Spanish  hat  with  long  plumes, 
and  a  shawl  of  black  lace,  trailing  along  her  bright 
silk  dress.  The  smile  faded  from  her  red  lips  at  sight 
of  grandj)apa's  face,  and  she  glanced  apprehensively 
from  him  to  a  large  sealed  letter  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  Eulalie,"  he  said,  steadying  his  voice  by  an  effort, 
"  I  promised  that  you  should  speedily  learn  the  story 
that  must  be  the  secret  of  your  life.  I  could  not  sit 
down  and  tell  it  to  you — I  could  not ;  but  I  have  writ- 
ten it  here,  and  to-night  or  to-morrow  you  will  read  it, 


i! 


'11 


r 
•ill 

h 


110 


TOLD    m    THE    TWILIQUT. 


and  learn  all.  My  poor  little  darling,  if  I  could  spare 
you  the  shock  of  this  revelation  with  my  life,  God 
knows  how  freely  that  life  would  be  given  I  But  I 
cannot ;  you  must  know  what  is  set  down  here.  And 
all  I  can  do  is,  to  pray  that  the  knowledge  may  not 
blast  your  whole  life  as  it  has  blasted  mine." 

"  Grandpapa !  grandpapa  I  is  it  so  very  dreadful, 
then  ?" 

"  Yes,  poor  child,  it  is  dreadful.  Say  a  prayer, 
EuLilic,  before  you  open  this  letter,  for  strength  and 
fortitude  to  bear  its  contents." 

She  held  the  letter  without  looking  at  it.  Her  di- 
lated eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face — her  parted  lips  were 
mutely  appealing  to  him.  He  took  both  her  hands  and 
clasj^cd  them  in  his. 

"Ask  me  nothing  now,  my  darling.  It  is  all 
written  there.  I  shall  return  in  a  week,  and  you  shall 
remain  here,  or  go  home,  just  as  you  please.  May  all 
good  angels  have  you  in  their  keeping,  my  precious 
child,  until  I  return." 

He  kissed  her  pjissionately,  and  led  her  toward  her 
own  room. 

"  Lock  up  your  letter,"  he  said ;  "  and  bring  the 
key  with  you.  l^o  eye  must  rest  on  this  history  but 
your  own." 

He  quitted  her  and  descended  the  stairs.  The  car- 
riage was  in  waiting,  and  so  was  Mrs.  Sutherland,  in  a 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIGUT. 


Ill 


Parisian  bonnet  and  cashmere  shawl.  She  was  going 
with  Eiilalic,  to  see  him  off,  and  a  groom  was  just  lead- 
ing round  Mr.  Sutherland's  hoi'se. 

"  Your  guard  of  honor  is  going  to  be  a  large  one," 
laughed  Mrs.  Sutherland.  "  Ai-thur  insists  on  escorting 
us  to  the  depot.  Where  is  Eulalie  ?  Ah !  here  she  is 
at  last ;  and  your  grandpapa  has  no  time  to  spare,  Miss 
Rohan." 

They  entered  the  carriage,  and  drove  away,  Arthur 
riding  beside  them,  determined  this  day  should  not 
pass  without  his  speaking.  They  stood  on  the  plat- 
form, watching  the  train  out  of  sight,  and  then  returned 
to  the  carriage. 

"  Crying !  you  foolish  child !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Sutherland  ;  "  and  grandpapa  only  going  for  a  week  I 
Come!  I  shall  not  permit  this  !  I  am  going  shopping 
in  the  village,  and  afterward  I  have  some  calls  to  make, 
and   you  shall   accompany   me.     That  will  cheer  you 


?? 


up 

Eulalie  would  have  excused  herself  if  she  could, 
and  gone  directly  back  to  Maplewood.  She  was  dying 
to  read  that  mysterious  letter,  and  learn  her  grand- 
father's terrible  secret ;  but  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  submission.  So  the  shopping  was  done,  and  the 
calls  made,  with  Arthur  still  dutifully  in  attendance  ; 
and  the  sunset  was  blazing  itself  out  in  the  sky  before 
they  returned. 


m 


:n 


■  vm 

I     !    ...Si 

'    ■■)■';' 


.-. 


'i, 


m 


hi !! 


112 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIGHT. 


A  red  and  wrathful  sunset.  The  day  had  been  op- 
pressively hot,  and  the  sun  lurid  and  crimson  in  a 
brassy  sky.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  and 
there  was  an  unnatural  greenish  glare  in  the  atmo- 
sphere, ominous  of  coming  storm.  The  trees  shivered 
at  intervals,  as  if  they  felt  already  the  tempest  to  come ; 
the  glassy  and  blackening  sea  moaned  as  it  washed  up 
over  the  sands ;  the  frightened  birds  cowered  in  their 
snug  nests,  and  over  the  paralyzed  earth,  the  hot,  brazen 
sky  hung  like  a  burning  roof.  Eulalie  glanced  fear 
fully  around  as  she  was  helj)ed  from  the  carriage  by 
Arthur. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  storm,"  he  said,  answering 
her  startled  glance ;  "  and  that  very  soon." 

It  wanted  but  a  quarter  of  seven,  Eulalie's  watch 
told  her ;  and  she  hastened  after  Mrs.  Sutherland,  to 
change  her  dress.  She  resigned  herself  into  the  hands 
of  her  maid,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation — there  was  no 
time  for  letter-reading  now — and  went  down-stairs, 
when  the  dinner-bell  rang.  But  dinner  on  such  a 
stifling  evening  was  little  better  than  a  meaningless 
ceremony  of  sitting  down  and  getting  up  again.  Eula- 
lie, accustomed  to  a  tropical  clime,  felt  as  if  she  were 
gasping  for  air,  as  if  she  could  not  breathe,  and  passed 
out  through  the  open  drawing-room  window,  down  to 
the  tei  race.  Now  was  Arthur's  chance.  Fortune,  that 
had  so  long  taken  a  malicious  pleasure  in  balking  him, 


TOLD  m  THE  TwiLianr, 


118 


was  in  a  favorable  mood  at  last.  lie  arose,  with  a 
lieart  beating  thick  and  fast,  and  strode  out  after  her, 
feeling  that  the  supreme  moment  had  come,  lie  could 
see  her  misty  white  dress  fluttering  in  and  out  among 
tlie  trees,  and  came  up  to  her  just  as  she  leaned  over 
the  iron  railing,  to  catch  tlie  faintest  breath  from  the 
sea.  The  lurid  twilight  was  fiery-red  yet,  in  the  west, 
but  all  the  rest  of  the  sky  looked  like  hot  brass  shutting 
down  over  their  heads.  Eulalie  lifted  her  dark  eyes  to 
his  face,  in  awe,  as  he  stood  beside  her. 

"  How  hot  it  is,"  she  said ;  "  and  what  an  awful 
sky  !  Tlie  very  sea  seems  holding  its  breath,  and  wait- 
ing for  something  fearful  1" 

"  The  storm  is  very  near,"  said  Arthur ;  "  the  sky 
over  there  looks  like  a  sea  of  blood." 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  that  made 
Eulalie  look  at  him  instead  of  at  the  blood-red  sky ; 
and  Arthur  Sutherland  broke  out  at  once  with  what  he 
had  followed  her  there  to  say.  That  passionate  avowal 
was  the  first  he  had  ever  uttered  in  his  life  ;  and  the 
crimson  west,  and  the  lurid  atmosphere,  and  the  black, 
heaving  sea  swam  in  a  hot  mist  before  his  eyes,  and 
the  scheme  of  creation  seemed  suspended,  not  awaiting 
the  coming  storm,  but  the  answer  of  this  black-eyed 
Creole  girl. 

•H-  •»  #  *  «  # 

Mrs,  Sutherland,  sitting  in  the  entrance  of  the  bay- 


t 


1 .  i-' 


^?^ 


[ 


f 


114 


TOLD    IN    THE    TWILIOHT. 


vviiulow,  too  languid  even  to  fan  herself,  this  oppressive 
June  eveninji^,  was  disturbed  five  minutes  after  the 
departure  of  her  son  and  Miss  Kohan  by  the  announce- 
ment of  a  visitor.  A  visitor  on  such  an  abriormal 
evening  was  certainly  the  last  thing  Mrs.  Sutherland 
expected  or  desired  ;  but  the  visitor  was  shown  in,  and 
proved  to  be  the  Keverend  Calvin  Masterson,  pastor  of 
the  fashionable  church  of  Saint  Mary's.  The  Reverend 
Calvin  had  come  to  solicit  a  donation  toward  a  new 
pulpit  and  sounding-board,  and  being  anxious  to  com- 
plete the  alTair  as  soon  as  possible,  had  ventured  out 
this  sultry  evening  to  Ma2:)lewood. 

Mrs.  Sutherland,  who  had  long  ago  set  the  Rever- 
end Calvin  d^wn  as  a  very  desirable  husband  for 
Augusta,  subscribed  liberally ;  and,  knowing  Eulalie's 
purse  was  ever  open  to  contributions  of  all  kinds, 
turned  round  to  look  for  her ;  but  Eulalie  was  not  to 
be  seen.  Lucy  Sutherland,  sitting  pale  and  cool 
through  all  the  heat,  came  out  of  the  shadows  to  inform 
her  that  Miss  Rohan  had  gone  out. 

"  Then  go  after  her,  Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 
"  You  will  find  her  in  the  terrace,  I  dare  say." 

Lucy,  who  never  hurried,  walked  leisurely  dojm 
the  chestnut  avenue.  Long  before  she  came  to  the 
terrace,  she  could  see  the  small,  white  figure,  with  the 
long,  jetty  curls,  and  that  other  tall  form  beside  it. 
There  could  be  no  mistaking  that  they  stood  there  as 


TOLD    m    TUB    TWILIOHT. 


115 


pliglitcd   Imsband   and   wife   now.     If  any  doubt  re 
maincd,  a  few  words  of  Arthur's,  caught  as  she  noared 
them,  would  have  ended  it. 

"  And  I  may  speak  to  your  grandfather,  th.en,  mj 
dearest  girl,  as  soon  as  he  returns?' 

Perhaps  Lucy's  pale  face  grew  a  shade  paler,  per- 
haps her  thin  Hj)s  compressed  themselves  more  firmly  ; 
but  that  was  all.  An  instant  after,  she  was  standing 
beside  them,  delivering  in  her  usual  quiet  voice  Mrs. 
Sutherland's  message. 

*'  Masterson,  eh  V  cried  Arthur.  "  He  must  be  in 
a  tremendous  hurry  for  the  sounding-board,  when  he 
comes  up  from  St.  Mary's  such  a  hot  evening  as  this." 

lie  drew  Eulalie's  hand  within  his  arm,  with  a  face 
quite  radiant  with  his  new  joy,  and  led  her  away. 
Lucy  followed  slowly,  her  lips  still  tightly  compressed, 
and  a  bright  light  shining  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  did 
not  return  to  the  drawing-room.  She  went  straight  to 
her  own  apartment,  and  sat  down  by  the  open  wuidow, 
and  watched  the  starless  night  blacken  down. 

An  hour  after,  the  Reverend  Calvin  Masterson 
drove  away ;  and,  as  the  clock  struck  ten,  she  heard 
Eiilalie,  Augusta,  and  Arthur  come  ui>stuirs. 

"Mr.  Masterson  will  have  a  dark  night  for  hia 
homeward  drive,"  Arthur  was  saying.  "  We  will  have 
the  storm  before  morning." 


!  '^ 


1    1 


110 


STRUCK    BY    LIOUTNINO, 


CHAPTER  YII. 

STRUCK  BY  LIGHTNING. 

ULALIE  EOHAN  went  to  her  room  that 
hot  Juno  evening  with  a  new  and  delicious 
sense  of  joy  thrilling  through  every  fibre  of 
her  heart.  She  had  taken  life  all  along  as  a 
bright  summer-holiday,  whose  darkest  cloud  was  a 
shadow  of  the  past  in  her  beloved  grandfatlier's  face  ; 
but,  to-night,  the  world  was  all  Eden,  and  she  the  hap- 
piest Eve  that  ever  danced  in  the  sunshine.  She  had 
never  known,  until  she  stood  listening  to  his  avowal  on 
the  terrace,  how  much  she  had  grown  to  love  Arthur 
Sutherland.  She  never  dreamed  how  near  and  dear  he 
had  become,  or  why  she  had  rejected  poor  Philip ; 
but  she  passed  from  childhood  to  womanhood  in  one 
instant,  and  knew  all  now. 

The  wax  tapers,  held  up  by  fat  Oui:)id8  in  the  frame 
of  her  mirror,  were  lit  when  she  entered,  and  Made- 
moiselle Trinette,  her  maid,  stood  ready  to  make  her 
young  lady's  night-toilet ;  but  Eulalie  was  not  going  to 
sleep  just  yet,  and  dismissed  her  with  a  emile. 


II 


STRUCK    DY   LIOUTNINa. 


117 


"  It  is  too  hot  to  go  to  bed,  Trinotte,"  she  Baid.  "  I 
filiall  not  retire  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  you  need  not 
wait  up.     Good  nic^ht." 

The  femme-de-chamhre  'quitted  the  room,  and 
Eulalie  seated  herself  by  the  window.  The  niglit  was 
moonless  and  starless,  and  would  have  l)een  pitch-dark 
but  for  a  lurid  phosphorescent  glare  in  the  atmosphere. 
In  the  unnatural  stilhiess  of  the  night,  she  could  hear 
the  shivering  of  the  trees,  the  slii)ping  of  a  snake  in 
the  under-bmsh,  or  the  uneasy  fluttering  of  a  bird  in 
its  nest.  No  breath  of  air  came  through  the  wid  .  ./pen 
casement,  and  the  waves  boomed  dully  on  the  shore 
below  with  an  ominous  roar. 

In  her  white  dress  and  dark  black  ringlets,  Eulalio 
eat  by  the  window  and  thought  how  very  happy  she 
was,  and  how  very  happy  she  was  going  to  be.  She 
mused  over  the  glorious  pictu^*'^  of  the  future  Arthur 
had  painted  while  they  stood  in  the  red  twilight  of  the 
terrace,  the  long  continental  tour  through  beautiful 
Italy,  fair  France,  sunny  Spain,  and  picturesque 
Switzerland  ;  of  the  winters  spent  in  her  Cuban  home 
among  the  magnolia  and  the  acacia  groves,  and  tho 
summers  passed  hero  at  Maplewood.  It  was  such  a 
beautiful  and  happy  life  to  look  forw^ard  to — almost 
too  happy,  she  feared — too  much  of  Heaven  to  be  en- 
joyed on  earth. 

An  hour  had  passed — two  hours — before  Eulalio 


■'■pii 


f;:  ^ 


i   !». 


li 


f-ii 


118 


STRUCK    D7    LIOIITNINO. 


ill 


f 


1 


■  i 


arose  from  tbo  window  and  prepared  to  retire.  As  sho 
stood  before  the  glass,  conihing  out  lier  niagniliccnt 
li;iir,  lier  eye  fell  on  the  little  rosewood  desk  in  which 
she  had  locked  that  mysterious  letter  given  her  by  lier 
grandfather.  She  had  forgotten  all  about  it  until  now, 
and  the  memory  sent  a  thrill  of  vague  fear  to  her  very 
heart.  That  mysterious  secret  that  he  told  her  would 
darken  her  whole  life  as  it  had  darkened  his — what 
could  it  be?  She  unlocked  the  desk — and  took  it  out 
with  fingers  that  trembled  a  little,  and  sat  looking  at  it 
with  a  superstitious  terror  of  opening  it. 

"  How  foolish  I  am  1"  she  thought,  at  hast ;  "  it 
cannot  be  so  very  terrible  after  all.  Poor  grandpapa 
is  morbid,  and  aggravates  its  importance.  It  is  no 
record  of  crime,  he  says ;  it  is  no  hereditary  disease, 
physical  or  mental ;  and  if  it  be  the  loss  of  wealth, 
even  of  ray  whole  fortune,  I  shall  not  regret  tliat 
much.  I  often  think  I  should  like  to  be  poor,  and 
wear  pretty  print  dresses  and  linen  collars,  and  live  in 
a  little  white  cottage  with  green  window-shutters,  liko 
t.ose  in  St.  Mary's,  and  take  tea  with  Arthur  every 
evening  at  six  o'clock.  I  will  say  a  prayer,  as  grand- 
papa told  me,  and  read  this  letter,  and  go  to  bed." 

There  was  a  lovely  picture  of  the  Mater  Dolorosa 
hanging  above  her  bed.  Eulalic  knelt  down  before  it 
and  murmured  an  Ave  Maria,  as  she  had  been  wont  to 
do  in  her  convent-days ;  and  then,  drawing  a  low  chair 


BTIWCK    BY    LIOIITNINO. 


tl9 


close  to  tlio  dressing-table,  opened  the  letter.  It  was 
very  long — half  a  dozen  closely-written  sheets — and 
signed,  "  Your  heart-broken  grandfather ;"  and  Enlalio, 
taking  up  the  first  sheet,  began  to  read. 


Arthur  Sutherland  felt  no  more  inclination  for 
sleep  this  oppressive  summer-night  than  Eulalie  Rohan. 
The  closeness  of  his  chamber  seemed  to  stifle  him,  and 
he  stepped  out  of  the  open  corridor  to  the  piazza  that 
ran  round  the  second  story.  He  could  see  the  lights 
from  the  other  chamber- windows  glaring  across  tho 
dusky  gloom,  and  he  knew  the  others  were  as  wakeful 
as  himself.  It  was  one  of  those  abnormal  nights — nut 
made  for  sleep — in  which  you  lie  awake  and  toss  about 
frantically,  as  if  your  pillows  were  red-hot  and  your 
bed  a  rack. 

"I  feel,"  he  thought — as  he  leaned  against  a 
slender  column  overnin  with  clematis,  and  lit  a  cigar — • 
"I  feel  as  though  something  were  about  to  happen.  I 
feel  as  though  this  intense  happiness  were  too  supreme 
to  last — as  though  the  tie  that  binds  me  and  Eulalie 
were  but  a  single  hair.  Good  Heavens !  if  I  should 
lose  her — if  something  should  happen  to  take  her  from 
me !" 

He  turned  faint  and  giddy  at  the  bare  thought. 
Poor  slighted  Philip  !  he  could  afford  to  pitv  him  now. 
Where  was  he  this  hot,  dark  night,  and  how  was  he 


i  i  ii 


120 


STRUCK    BY    LIQnTNING, 


bearing  the  blow  he  had  received  ?  It  was  so  impossi- 
ble not  to  love  this  beautiful  black-eyed  enchantress 
that  Philip  was  not  so  much  to  blame  after  all. 

"  I  will  rim  up  to  New  York  when  Mr.  Rohan 
returns  and  I  liave  spoken  to  him,  and  hunt  the  poor 
lad  up,"  mused  Arthur.  "  I  wish  I  had  not  brought 
him  down.  But  how  was  I  to  know  that  my  mother's 
heiress  would  turn  out  a  little  black-eyed  angel !" 

He  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  piazza,  smoking 
and  thinking,  for  over  two  hours.  One  by  one,  the 
lighted  windows  darkened — Eulalie's  alone  shone  bright 
still.  He  wondered  what  she  could  be  doing  to  keep 
her  up  so  long ;  and  while  he  watched  her  window, 
there  shot  athwart  the  sultry  gloom  a  sheet  of  blue 
flame  that  almost  blinded  him.  A  moment's  pause, 
and  then  a  roll  of  thunder,  as  if  the  heavens  were 
rending  asunder.  A  great  drop  of  rain  fell  on  his 
face,  then  another  and  another,  thick  and  fast ;  and  the 
storm  threatening  so  long  had  burst  in  its  might. 

Arthur  stepped  hastily  through  the  window  and 
closed  it.  A  second  sheet  of  lurid  flame  leaped  out 
like  a  two-edged  sword,  and  lit  up,  with  an  unearthly 
glare,  the  woods  and  meadows  and  gardens  of  Maple- 
wood.  A  second  roll  of  thunder,  nearer  and  more 
deafening  than  the  first,  and  a  deluge  of  rain.  The 
sky  had  kept  its  promise,  and  the  tempest  of  rain  and 
lightning    aud    thunder  was    appalling    in   its    fury. 


8TRUCK    BY    LWHTNINQ. 


121 


the 


Arthur  Sutherland  put  his  hands  over  his  dazzled  eyes, 
feeling  as  though  the  incessant  blaze  of  the  lightning 
were  striking  him  blind.  Flash  followed  flash,  almost 
without  a  second's  intermission,  blue,  blinding,  ghostly 
— the  continual  roll  of  the  thunder  was  horrible,  and 
the  rain  fell  with  a  roar  like  a  waterfall. 

"  Good  Heavens !"  thought  Arthur,  "  what  awful 
lightning !  My  poor  little  timid  Eulalie  will  be  fright- 
ened. I  remember  Augusta  telling  me  once  how  ter- 
rified she  was  at  thunder-storms." 

He  opened  his  door,  crossed  the  hall,  and  tapped  at 
his  sister's.  It  was  opened  immediately  by  Augusta, 
who  looked  like  a  picture  of  the  tragic  muse,  with  her 
hair  all  disheveled,  and  her  white  morning-dress  hang- 
ing loose  about  her. 

"  Have  you  not  retired  yet,  Augusta  ?"  her  brother 
asked. 

''  No,  I  staid  up  reading  a  novel  until  the  lightning 
commenced ;  and  now  it  is  of  no  use  thinking  of  bed 
until  this  storm  is  over.  Good  Heaven !  what  awful 
lifchtninf]^ !" 

A  sheet  of  blue  lambent  flame  that  almost  blinded 
them  lit  up,  for  nearly  three  minutes,  the  hall,  followed 
by  a  thunder-clap  that  shook  the  house  to  its  veiy 
foundation.  Augusta  clasped  her  hands  over  her  daz- 
zled eyes,  and  her  brother  seized  her  wrist  and  drew 
her  with  him  into  the  hall. 
6 


t.  i 


!    I, 


-"^- 


122 


STRUCK    BY    LIQUTNINO. 


ii 


,  "  Augusta,"  lie  said,  hurriedly,  "  you  told  me  Eulalie 
was  afraid  of  lightning.  I  wish  you  would  go  in  and 
stay  with  the  poor  child  until  this  storm  is  past." 

Miss  Sutherland,  just  at  that  particular  time,  had 
no  very  especial  love  for  the  black-eyed  hearty  who 
had  w^on  her  cousin  Philip  from  her  ;  but  she  tapped, 
nevertheless,  at  Miss  Rohan's  door.  There  was  no 
reply ;  Augusta  rapped  again,  more  loudly,  but  still  no 
answer.     She  turned  to  her  brother  with  a  paling  face. 

"  Try  the  door,"  he  said  ;  "  open  it  yourself." 

Augusta  turned  the  handle.  The  door  was  not 
locked,  and  she  w^ent  in.  Went  in,  over  the  threshold, 
and  recoiled  an  instant  after,  with  a  shrill  and  prolonged 
scream,  that  echoed  from  end  to  end  of  the  house. 

Arthur  Sutherland,  lingering  in  the  hall,  was  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  in  a  moment.  In  all  the  long  years 
of  his  after-life  he  never  forgot  the  picture  on  which 
he  looked  then.  The  tall  candles  flared  around  the 
mirror,  but  the  perpetual  flashing  of  the  lightning  lit 
the  room  with  a  blue  ghasthness  that  quenched  their 
pale  light.  There  was  a  certain  sulphurous  smell  in 
the  chamber,  too,  that  Arthur  had  perceived  in  the 
hall,  but  not  half  so  strongly  as  here.  Eulalie  sat  at 
the  table,  still  in  her  dinner-dress,  the  shining  skirt 
trailing  the  carpet,  the  jewelry  she  wore  flashing 
wierdly  in  the  unnatural  light.  She  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair, erect  and  rigid  ;  her  hands  clasping  the  last  sheet 


'■    !■ 


STRUCK    BY    LIOnrNlNG. 


133 


of  a  letter,  her  largo  black  eyes  staring  wide  open,  with 
an  awful,  glazed,  and  sightless  glare.  Not  one  vestigo 
of  color  remained  in  the  dead,  white  face;  and  with 
the  staring,  wide-open  eyes,  the  marble  stiffness  of 
form  and  face,  she  looked  like  nothing  on  earth  but  a 
galvanized  corpse.  A  terrible  sight,  sitting  upright 
there,  tricked  out  in  satin  and  hice,  and  perhaps  stone- 
dead.  She  had  evidently  but  just  finished  reading  her 
letter — the  loose  sheets  lay  at  her  feet,  where  they  liad 
fluttered  down.  The  horrible  truth  flaslied  upon  Ar- 
thur in  a  moment — she  had  been  struck  by  lightning ! 
Witli  the  awful  thought  yet  tlirilling  to  the  core  of  his 
heart,  he  was  bending  over  lier,  holding  both  her  hands 
clasped  in  his.  These  hands  were  ice-cold,  and  she  sat, 
neither  hearing  nor  seeing  him,  staring  blankly  at 
vacancy. 

"  Eulalie !"  he  cried.  "  My  darling !  speak  to  me  I 
Enlalie  !  Eulalie  !  do  you  not  know  me  ?" 

She  might  have  been  stone-deaf,  for  all  the  sign 
she  made  of  hearing  him — stone-blind,  for  all  the  sign 
she  made  of  seeing  him — stone-dead,  for  any  proof  of 
life  or  consciousness. 

There  were  others  in  the  chamber  now — looking  on 
with  pallid,  awe-struck  faces.  Augusta's  scream  had 
aroused  the  house.  Arthur  Sutherland  saw  a  mist  of 
faces  around  him,  without  recognizing  one  of  them ; 


i:p 


I  m 


i 

m 

'   V' 

'1 

In 


ill  ! 

I)  I 


hi 


, 


11 


:f 


124 


STRUCK    BY    LronTNING. 


he  could  sec  notliiiii2^  but  tliat  one  white,  rigid  face, 
with  tlie  stariiii^,  wide-open  ])l:ick  eyes. 

"  Arthur,"  ;i  quiet  voice  said,  iind  a  hand  was  laid 
lii^litly  on  Ids  slioulder.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  his 
mother,  in  lier  dressing-i^own,  pale  and  composed. 
"  Arthur,  you  had  better  ii;o  for  Doctor  Denover  at 
once.  The  storm  is  subsidinuc  and  there  is  no  time  to 
lose.     I  fear  she  has  been  stunned  by  the  lightning." 

The  words  restored  Arthur  to  himself.  lie  started 
to  his  feet,  and  was  out  of  the  room  in  a  second.  In 
another,  he  had  donned  hat  and  waterproof  coat,  and 
in  live  minutes  was  galloping,  thi'ougli  darkness  and 
rain,  and  thunder  and  lightning,  as  he  never  had 
gallo]-)ed  before. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  had  sal-volatile,  cologne,  and  other 
female  restoratives  for  fainting  brought,  but  in  this 
case  all  proved  useless.  She  chafed  the  cold  hands  and 
temples,  but  warmth  was  not  to  be  restored.  She 
strove  by  caresses  and  endearing  words  to  restore  some 
sign  of  life  into  that  death-like  face ;  but  all  in  vain ; 
all  in  vain.  Augusta  and  Lucy  stood  silently  near ;  the 
servants  were  grouped  in  the  hall,  hushed  and  fright- 
ened ;  and  the  ghastly  blue  glare  of  the  lightning  still 
lit  up,  at  htful  intervals,  the  room. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  desisted  at  length  from  her  hope- 
less task,  and  rose  up,  very  pale. 

"  I  can  do  no  more,'^  she  said.     "  It  is  the  first  case 


STRUCK    BY    LIOUTNINO. 


135 


of  the  kind  that  has  ever  come  within  my  observation. 
I  wisli  Doctor  Denovcr  was  here !    Lucy,  what  is  that  ?" 

Lucy  had  stooped  to  pick  up  the  fallen  sheets  of  tho 
letter;  and  slie  looked  up  from  sorting  them  at  thig 
abru2:>t  question.  One  sentence  had  caught  her  eye  on 
the  last  sheet,  and  set  lier  curiosity  ailanie.  The  sen- 
tence was  this  :  "  Beware  of  that  man,  my  child  !  I 
know  not  whether  lie  is  living  or  dead,  but  the  fear  lias 
been  the  blight  of  my  life,  as  it  nuist  be  the  banc  of 
yours." 

Lucy  Sutherland  had  time  to  see  no  more.  Her 
aunt's  hand  was  outstretched  to  receive  the  letter,  her 
aunt's  haughty  voice  was  speaking. 

"  That  is  Miss  Ttohan's  letter,  Miss  Sutherland. 
Give  it  to  me !" 

Lucy  silently  obeyed.  Mrs.  Sutherland  crossed  to 
Eulalie's  bm'eau,  placed  the  letter  in  one  of  the  drawers, 
without  looking  at  it,  locked  the  drawer,  and  put  tho 
key  in  her  pocket.  There  was  a  significance  in  the  act 
that  made  Lucy's  light-blue  eyes  flash,  and  she  turned 
and  walked  out  of  the  apartment,  up-stairs,  to  her  room. 

In  her  own  room,  she  sat  down  by  the  open  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  at  the  black,  blind  night.  Ghastly 
gleams  of  lightning  quivered  zig-zag  in  the  air  yet,  tho 
rain  still  fell  with  an  angry  rush,  and  tho  thunder 
boomed  sullenly ;  but  the  midnight  storm  was  suljsid- 
iug.     Lucy  Sutherland,  sitting  there,  felt  a  fiendish  joy 


I   I 


i2>i 


ti 


% 


!| 


isr 


!| ;' 


11 


jiii 


,1       ! 


i        I 


126 


STRUCK   BY    LIQUTNING. 


at  iier  heart — a  demoniacal  sense  of  triumph  and  de- 
,  liglit.  In  all  the  pride  of  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
the  licry  arrow  from  the  clouds  had  struck  her  rival 
down.  "  She  may  die !  She  may  die !"  was  her  in- 
ward thought ;  "  and  he  may  be  mine  yet !" 

Slie  sat  there  the  livelong  night,  looking  out  at  the 
black  trees,  listening  to  the  liurrying  of  feet  down 
stairs,  the  opening  and  shutting  of  doors  ;  careless  what 
they  thought  of  her  absence,  and  thinking  her  own 
dark  thoughts.     Had  Eulalie  Rohan  really  been  struck 
by  lightning,  or  was  it  something  in  that  letter  that  had 
struck  her  down,  like  a  death-blow  1     "  Beware  of  that 
man  !     I  know  not  whether  he  is  living  or  dead  ;  but 
the  fear  has  been  the  blight  of  my  life,  as  it  must  bo 
the  bane  of  yours."     The  strange  words  danced  before 
lier  eyes,  as  if  the  letter  were  yet  in  licr  hands.     She 
knew  it  was  from  Eulalie's  grandfather.     She  had  seen 
the  signature  on  that  same  last  sheet,  "Your  heart- 
broken grandfather,  Gustavus  Rohan." 

It  sounded  very  melodramatic,  but  there  miofht  bo 
a  terrible  meaning  in  the  words  after  all. 

"  If  I  could  only  get  that  letter,"  she  mused  ;  "  if  I 
could  only  get  it  for  ten  minutes.  There  is  some  secret 
in  that  old  man's  life,  and  that  secret  is  to  overshadow 
the  life  of  his  granddaughter.  AYliat  can  it  be?  Who 
is  this  man  of  whom  he  warns  her — who  has  her  in  his 
power— the  fear  of  whom  is  to  be  the  bane  of  her  life, 


'/I 


STRUCK    BY    LIQUTNINa. 


127 


as  it  has  been  the  blight  of  his?  If  I  could  only 
fathom  this  mystery,  I  miglit  stop  the  marriage  yet. 
Where  there  is  secrecy  there  is  apt  to  be  guilt,  and 
Arthur  Sutherland  would  never  ally  himself  with  guilt. 
Oh  !  if  I  could  only  get  that  letter !" 

She  heard  the  return  o..  Arthur  and  the  physician, 
and  stole  on  tiptoe  to  t)';^  head  of  the  stairs  to  listen. 
Eulalic's  room-door  st'^'jd  open  this  sultry  night,  and 
she  could  hear  as  plainly  as  if  she  were  in  the  apart- 
ment. It  was  quite  plain  the  doctor  was  as  much  puz- 
zled as  the  rest,  and  failed  as  entiiely  to  restore  the 
stunned  girl  to  consciousness.  If  sho  had  really  been 
struck  by  lightning,  the  fiery  shaft  had  left  no  trace ; 
it  hac'  benumbed  her,  as  the  whistliiig  of  a  cannon-ball 
clos'  to  her  head  might  have  benumbed  her.  She  sat 
th<'  e  before  them,  an  awful  sighf,  in  the. dismal  gray 
of  tlie  coming  morning,  decked  in  satin  and  lace  and 
jf  irels,  the  white  face  stony  and  c«)rpse-like,  the  black, 
f  iring  e^^es  awfully  like  the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

"It  is  a  most  remarkable  case,"  Doctor  Denover 
iid  ;  "  a  case  such  as  has  never  come  under  my  obser* 
^ation  before.  I  have  known  cases  where  intense  feai 
)r  sudden  shocks  have  produced  some  such  result.  I 
cannot  be  certain  that  it  was  the  lightning.  Do  you 
know  if  the  young  lady  had  received  a  shock  of  any  kind  ? 
There  are  finely -strung,  sensitive  organizations  that 
sudden  shocks  of  any  kind  stun  into  a  state  like  this." 


M^ 


128 


STIiUGK   BY    LlOnTNING, 


\ '■  li 


if    ' 


'■     i. 


"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland,  "  I  am  not  aware  of 
uny.  Miss  Ttolian  spent  the  evening  with  us,  and 
retired  to  her  room  about  two  hours  before  we  discov- 
ered lier,  in  excellent  spirits.  I  am  positive  she  re- 
ceived no  shock." 

"  Was  she  very  much  afraid  of  thunder-storms  ?" 
inquired  Doctor  Denover ;  "  intense  fear  might  have 
this  effect." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Augusta,  "  Eulalie  was  always 
terribly  f?'ightened  by  lightning,  more  frightened  than 
any  one  I  ever  knew." 

"  It  may  have  been  fear,  then,"  said  the  doctor ; 
"  as  I  said,  I  have  known  such  things  to  occur,  and  the 
sufferers  have  been  stunned  into  a  state  resembling 
death.  Sometimes  they  have  recovered,  sometimes 
they  have  not.  Sometimes  physical  animation  returns, 
but  the  mind  remains  dead  forever.  In  this  case  I 
camiot  at  present  pronounce  an"  opinion.  The  poor 
young  lady  had  better  be  undressed  and  placed  in  bed, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Sutherland,  and  we  will  try  what  a  little 
blood-letting  will  do  for  her." 

"I  wonder  how  he  is  bearing  all  this?"  thought 
Lucy,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  with  a  sava_,e  feeling 
of  revengeful  delight  at  her  heart ;  "  I  wonder  whose 
is  the  trium2)li  now  ?" 

She  passed  the  remainder  of  the  long  night,  or 
rather  dawn,  between  her  own  chamber  and  the  head 


8T11UCK    BY    LiailTNINO. 


120 


of  the  stairs,  listening  to  what  was  going  on  below. 
She  knew,  with  a  horrible  inward  joy,  that  he  had 
failed  in  every  attempt  to  rouse  her,  and  that  he  was 
going  away  in  desjDair. 

"  I  can  do  nothing  more  at  present,"  she  heard  him 
say,  as  he  was  leaving  ;  "  it  is  an  extraordinary  case, 
and  has  had  no  jiarallcl  in  my  practice.  I  will  retin-n 
this  afternoon,  as  you  directed,  Mrs.  Sutherland,  with 
Doctors  Heachton  and  May,  and  we  will  have  a  consul- 
tation. Meantime,  keep  her  (piiet,  and  force  her  to 
take  the  nourishment  I  mentioned.  I  think,  ^Ir. 
Sutherland,  you  would  do  well  to  telegraph  for  her 
grandfather  at  once." 

"  You  think,  then,  doctor,"  Lucy  heard  Arthur  say, 
in  a  voice  that  did  not  sound  like  the  voice  of  Arthur, 
"  that  there  is  no  hope  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  ray  dear  sir,  by  no  means ;  whilo 
there  is  life  there  is  hope." 

"  AYliich  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  her  doom  is 
sealed,"  thought  the  listener  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

The  doctor  took  his  departure,  in  the  dismal  gray- 
ness  of  the  rainy  morning.  A  dull  and  hopeless  day 
rose  slowly  out  of  the  black  and  stormy  night;  a 
gloomy  day  at  the  best,  depressing  and  ^vrctchod,  even 
to  the  happy ;  doubly  depressing  and  ^^Tetchcd  in  the 
silent  house.  Drifts  of  sullen  clouds  darkened  the 
leaden  sky  ;  the  rain  fell  with  miserable  persistence ; 
0* 


IP 


1:J0 


STJtUGK    BY    LIOIITNINO. 


"II" 


tliu  wIthI  liowlcd  in  lon<^,  lamentable  blasts  tlircuf^li  the 
wet  trees ;  and  the  dull,  ceaseless  roar  of  the  surf  on 
the  shore  boomed  over  all.  Inside  the  house,  tlio 
silence  of  dcatli  reigned  now ;  the  noises  of  the  ni^ht 
were  rej)luced  bj  ominous  calm.  If  tliat  ])retty  room 
bel(j\v  Iiad  (!ontained  a  corpse,  the  old  mansion  could 
not  have  l>oen  huslied  in  nh)re  profound  stillness. 

A  deep-vuiced  clock,  somewhere  in  the  silent  house, 
struck  nine,  and  the  strokes  sounded  like  the  tolling  of 
a  dcath-belK  L^^^'V,  hi  a  carefully  arranged  toilet,  with 
neatly-braided  hair,  and  spotless  cuffs  and  collar, 
descended  calmly  to  breakfast.  The  door  of  Miss 
Rohan's  room  stood  ajar,  and  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  aunt,  sitting  by  the  bedside.  She  saw  Arthur  in 
his  own  room,  too,  as  she  passed  the  half-open  door, 
pacing  restlessly  up  and  do\vn,  looking  worn  and  hag- 
gard in  the  dismal  daylight. 

Augusta  followed  her  into  the  breakfast-parlor,  and 
they  took  their  solitary  meal  together.  When  it  was 
over — and  a  most  silent  and  comfortless  repast  it  was — • 
Augusta  went  up  to  Eulalie's  room ;  and  Lucy,  with 
her  everlasting  work-basket  and  embroidery,  took  hei 
seat  near  the  window  and  calmly  waited  for  events  to 
take  their  course. 

It  rained  all  day,  ceaselessly,  wretchedly.  The 
melancholy  wind  tore  through  the  trees,  and  beat  the 
rain  against  the  glass,  and  deepened  the  white  rage  of 


8TRUCK    BY    LIGUTNINQ. 


131 


the  surf  on  the  shore.  But  througli  it  all,  the  telegram 
recalling  Mr.  Rohan  to  Maplewood  went  sliivcring 
along  the  wires  to  New  York;  and  through  it  all  the 
three  doctors  of  St.  Mary's  drove  np  to  the  house  in  the 
afternoon.  There  was  an  examination  of  the  patient. 
They  found  the  death-like  trance  as  death-like  as  ever  ; 
and  had  a  prolonged  consultation  afterward  in  the 
library.  Lucy  did  not  hear  the  result,  but  it  was 
evident  enough  the  case  batiled  the  three.  They 
staid  for  dinner,  and  talked  learnedly  of  the  eccen- 
tricities of  the  electric  fluid  ;  of  people  struck  blind, 
or  dumb,  or  deaf,  or  dead,  by  lightning.  But  all  the 
precedents  they  cited  seemed  to  throw  no  light  on  the 
present  case,  and  they  went  away  in  the  gloomy  twi- 
light, leaving  matters  much  as  they  were. 

Three  days  passed  and  still  no  change.  She  lay  in 
her  little  white  bed,  as  a  corpse  might  lie  on  its  bier, 
cold  and  white  as  snow.  The  soul  looking  out  of  that 
white  face  might  have  fled  forever,  for  all  signs  of 
life  in  the  vacant  black  eyes.  She  lay  without  speak- 
ing or  moving,  or  seeming  to  recognize  any  of  them. 
At  intervals  they  parted  the  locked  teeth  with  a  knife, 
and  forced  her  to  swallow  tea-spoonfuls  of  port  wine 
and  essence  of  beef.  They  gave  her  powerful  opiat(.'8, 
and  drew  the  curtains,  and  darkened  the  room ;  and 
perhaps  in  these  intervals  she  slept ;  but  whenever  they 
drew  near  the  bed,  they  found  the  great  dark  eyes  wido 


i.-i 


I 


n 


fr 


II'    ii 

'rl 


n       II 

i 


133 


STltUCK    D7    LIOUTNINQ. 


open  and  looking  blankly  at  the  wliito  wall.  They 
never  left  her,  ni<;lit  or  day ;  and  Lucy,  quietly  obser- 
vant of  all,  wondered  if  Arthur  ever  me;mt  to  cat  or 
sleep  again.  Those  three  days  had  made  him  pale, 
haggard,  and  hollow-eyed,  and  revealed  his  secret  to 
every  one  in  the  house. 

On  the  fourth  day  there  was  a  change.  Some  sign 
of  recognizing  Arthur  had  been  given  when  he  stooped 
over  her,  and  she  had  articulated  a  word — "grand- 
father." But  she  had  fallen  off  again,  and  they  had 
failed  to  arouse  her,  as  she  lay  vacantly  looking  at  the 
blank  wall. 

"  It  is  very  strange,  Arthur,"  Mrs.  Sutherland  said, 
as  she  stood  with  her  son  for  a  moment  on  the  piazza, 
before  descending  to  dinner — "  it  is  very  strange  Mr. 
Rohan  does  not  return." 

"  He  may  have  left  New  York,"  said  Arthur,  "  be- 
fore the  telegram  reached  there.  He  will  be  witli  us, 
no  doubt,  in  a  day  or  two." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  carriage- wheels  rolled  rapidly  up 
along  the  drive ;  and,  an  instant  after,  a  conveyance 
from  the  railway  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
and  they  saw  the  Cuban  millionaire  sitting  behind  the 
driver. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  and  Arthur  hastened  down  at  once, 
and  met  the  old  man  on  the  portico  steps.    His  face 


STRUCK    BY    LIOUTNINO. 


133" 


was  oslicii  white,  but  there  was  a  strange  fire  in  his 
eyes,  a  strange  and  startling  energy  In  liis  voice. 

"Will  she  live?"  he  cried,  grasping  Mrs.  Suther- 
land's hand,  and  looking  at  her  with  that  startling  tiro 
in  his  eyes.     ""  Will  she  live  ?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Kolian,"  Mrs.  Sutherland  was  hegin- 

ning,  sadly  ;  but  he  cut  her  short,  with  a  Hashing  glanco 

and  a  stauij)  of  passionate  impatience. 

"  Will  she  live?"  he  cried  out  vehemently;  "  (juick  I 
r es  or  no  ?" 

"  The  doctors  say  no  I" 

"  Thank  God !" 

Mother  and  son  recoiled  at  that  fearful  thanksgiving, 
as  if  they  had  been  struck.  But  he  never  looked  at 
them  as  he  strode  straight  on  to  his  granddaughter's 
room. 


tn 


m 

i 


'ill 


i. 


^1  Ij 


II 'Hi 


li*1 


§ 


"I;  ■  I 


:i     I 


r   i 


134 


TAKEN    AWAY. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


ULALIE  did  not  die.  The  doctors  had  said 
she  could  not  recover,  but,  in  spite  of  tlie 
doctors,  she  did.  From  that  fourtli  day,  on 
wliicli  she  had  spoken,  vitality  returned ; 
and  in  the  brief  struggle  between  life  and  death,  life 
had  gained  the  victory.  But  the  recovery  was  wearily 
slow,  and  very  trying  to  those  who  loved  her.  Sho 
knew  her  grandfather  when  he  bent  over  lier,  his  tears 
streaming  on  her  white  face,  but  she  knew  him  as  if  he 
litid  not  been  absent  at  all.  She  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten that.  Yery  slowly  the  fair,  frail  body  begar  to 
recover,  but  the  mind  remained  hopelessly  benumbed. 
She  knew  them  all  when  they  spoke  to  her,  but  their 
presence  seemed  to  convey  no  idea  to  her  clouded  brain. 
Slie  had  nothing  to  say  to  them;  she  had  nothing  to 
soy  to  any  one,  except  to  her  grandfather,  and  her  poor, 
plaintive,  childish  cry  to  him  ever  was,  "Take  me 
lionic,  graTidpapa — take  me  home !" 

In  her  sleep  she  wandered  deliriously,  and  talked 


;!,  !"t 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


135 


of  lier  Cuban  home,  her  convent-school,  her  lessons,  her 
tasks,  her  girl  friends,  but  she  never  by  any  chance 
came  back  to  the  present.  Maplewood  and  its  memo- 
ries seemed  to  have  entirely  faded  out,  and  she  was  only 
tlie  child  Eulalie  once  more,  crying  out  to  be  taken 
liome. 

During  the  three  long  weeks  in  which  the  poor 
little  feet  strayed  wearily  in  the  "  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,"  Mr.  llohan  scarcely  left  her  side,  night  or 
day.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  passionate  love,  the 
devoted  tenderness,  the  sleepless  anxiety,  with  which 
he  watched  over  her.  There  was  no  mistaking  that 
all-absorbing  love  for  his  grandchild — sinfal,  beyond 
doubt,  in  its  excess,  despite  that  strange  and  unnatural 
"  Thank  God !"  he  had  uttered  so  fervently  when  he 
heara  she  must  die.  It  was  wonderful  inconsistency, 
surely,  but  so  it  was.  He  scare" ^.y  left  her  long  enough 
to  take  sufficient  food  or  sleep  to  support  nature ;  his 
tears  furrowed  his  aged  cheeks  as  he  watched  that 
snowy  face,  so  cold  and  deathlike,  contrasting  with  the 
great,  hollow  black  eyes  and  disheveled  raven  hair. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  had  followed  liim  to  his  grand- 
daughter's chamber,  on  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  and 
had  been  startled  considerably  by  the  vehemence  with 
which  he  asked  his  first  question.  She  had  been  nar- 
rating to  hi.n,  by  the  way,  the  circumstances  attending 
Eulalie's  misfortune. 


I-    'A 


■  m 


!     >*' 


130 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


"Madam !"  lie'saifl,  cutting  her  abniptly  short ;  "  I 
sent  my  granddanglitcr  a  letter  which  she  should  have 
received  on  that  day.     "Where  is  that  letter  ?" 

Mrs.  Sutherland  produced  the  key  of  the  bureau 
drawer. 

"  AVe  found  the  letter  lying  on  the  floor  at  her  feet, 
as  if  she  had  just  finished  reading  it,  and  I  locked  it 
in  that  drawer." 

Mr.  Rohan  crossed  the  room,  opened  the  drawer, 
took  out  the  letter,  and  j^laccd  it  carefully  in  his  pocket- 
book,  before  he  sat  down  by  his  grandchild's  bedside. 

lie  listened  to  what  Mrs.  Sutherland  had  to  say, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  colorless  face,  and  both 
wasted  little  hands  clasped  in  his.  lie  listened  without 
answering — without  taking  his  eyes  once  off  that  dear 
face,  his  own  drawn  and  quivering  with  suppressed 
ancfuish. 

"  He  is  the  strangest  old  man,"  Mrs.  Sutherland 
said  to  her  son,  afterward ;  "  I  sometimes  think  his 
mind  is  going.  How  extraordinary  that  he  should 
utter  that  horrible  thanksgiving  when  I  told  him  Eula- 
lie  must  die !  and  yet  he  loves  her  to  idolatry." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  Arthur  said,  sadly ;  "  how  I  pity  , 
him." 

"  That  letter,  too,"  his  mother  w^ent  on,  musingly  ; 
"  Why  should  he  be  f  o  anxious  about  it  the  first 
moment  he  aiTives  ?     It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  ho 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


137 


can  have  any  secret  to  conceal ;  and  yet,  dear  me!  it 
seems  very  much  like  it." 

Artluir  did  not  reply  ;  lie  scarcely  heard  her.  He 
only  feared  that  the  life  and  the  reason  of  the  woman 
he  loved  were  in  danger,  and  that  dreadful  knowledge 
blotted  out  everything  else.  The  silent  agony  of  those 
long  days  and  nights  that  had  intervened  since  the  fiery 
bolt  had  struck  her  down  in  the  zenith  of  her  beauty 
and  youth,  had  left  traces  in  his  pale,  worn  face  that 
no  one  could  mistake.  Perhaps  even  that  devoted 
grandfather,  watching  over  his  one  ewe-lamb,  suffered 
less  than  the  young  lover,  who  had  yielded  his  whole 
heart  to  the  spell  of  the  dark-eyed  enchantress,  hover- 
ing now  between  life  and  death.  lie  had  spoken  to 
that  grandfather,  or  rather,  his  heart  had  broken  out  in 
spite  of  him,  in  his  despair,  and  he  had  told  the  story 
of  his  love  and  his  acceptance,  and  liis  anguish,  with  a 
passionate  abandonment  of  sorrow  that  could  not  fail 
to  touch  any  heart  that  loved  her. 

It  was  a  silent,  sultry  summer  evening,  a  week  after 
the  old  man's  return.  The  two  went  walking  up  and 
down  the  chestnut-grove,  with  the  black  shadows  of 
the  trees  making  flickering  arabesques  on  the  sward  at 
his  feet,  and  the  yellow  summer-moon  flaming  up  in 
the  low  sky.  lie  could  not  tell  how  the  silent  and  self- 
contained  old  millionaire  might  take  his  revelations — 
just  at  that  moment  he  did  not  care ;  but  he  was  cer- 


■  ti 


T'ill 


'  I'll 


M 


I 


I 

lit 


11  i 


138 


TAKEN  AWAY, 


tiiiiily  unprepared  for  having  his  hand  grasped,  as  a 
father  might  have  grasped  it. 

"My  poor  boy!" — the  old  man  said,  in  a  broken 
voice  ; — "  my  poor  boy,  I  have  foreseen  this !  I  would 
have  saved  you — I  would  have  saved  her;  but  I  could 
not !  I  could  not  I  There  is  a  fate,  I  suppose,  in  these 
things !     May  Heaven  help  you  to  bear  your  trial !" 

"  Then  you  would  not  have  withheld  your  consent  ?" 
Arthur  said.  "I  feared  you  would  think  me  pre- 
sumptuous in  asking  for  her  hand.  I  feared  you  might 
have  higlier  views !" 

"No,  no,  no!"  cried  the  old  man,  vehemently. 
"  God  knows  how  gladly  I  would  give  my  darling  to 
you,  Arthur  Sutherland,  for  I  believe  you  to  be  a  good 
and  honorable  man  ;  but  there  is  an  obstacle — an  ob- 
obstacle  that  can  never  be  surmounted — between 
you." 

"  An  obstacle  I"  Arthur  repeated,  in  astonishment. 
"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Rohan,  turning  his 
face  away.  "  It  is  my  secret  and  hers,  poor  child  !  and 
I  fear  it  is  the  knowledge  of  that  secret,  and  no  liglit- 
ning-ilash,  that  has  struck  her  down.  I  cannot  tell  you 
wliat  it  is,  Mr.  Sutherland.  I  can  only  say  I  fear  it 
will  keep  you  apart  forever.  If  my  poor  darling  lives, 
it  will  keep  her  Eulalie  Ilolian  all  her  life." 

"This  is  very  strange,"  said  Arthur,  slowly;  "I 


li 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


139 


have  no  claim  to  a  knowledge  of  your  secret^  Mr. 
Eolian ;  but  so  far  as  it  involves  her  who  has  promised 
to  be  my  wife,  I  surely  have  some  right  to  know  why 
it  is  to  keep  ns  apart,  and  to  judge  for  myself  whether 
it  is  sufficient.  It  nnist  be  a  very  powerful  reason,  in- 
deed " — with  a  tremor  of  the  voice — "  that  will  hold 
me  for  life  from  the  woman  I  love." 

"  This  is  a  powerful  reason,"  said  Mr.  Rohan ;  "  but 
not  even  so  far  as  you  ask  have  I  a  right  to  reveal  this 
secret  of  my  lift.  I  have  not  the  right ;  for  it  menaces 
Eulalie,  not  me." 

"  Menaces  Eulalie !     It  is  some  danger,  then  ?" 

"  It  is  some  danger," 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  loss  of  wealth  you  fear,"  cried 
Arthur,  brightening ;  "  if  so — " 

"No,  no,  no!"  interposed  the  old  man,  hastily; 
"  would  to  Heaven  the  loss  of  every  farthing  I  possess 
could  free  my  poor  child  from  her  danger!  Most 
gladly,  most  thankfully  would  I  become  a  beggar  to- 
morrow 1" 

Arthur  Sutherland's  brow  contracted.  Was  there 
really  some  dark  and  hideous  secret  involving  his 
plighted  wife,  or  was  all  this  strange  talk  but  the  lu- 
xaey  of  a  monomaniac.  There  was  a  long  and  painful 
pause,  hioken  at  last  by  the  younger  man. 

"  You  do  not  treat  me  well,  Mr.  Rohan,"  he  said, 
the  light  of  the  yellow  moon  showing  how  pale  his  face 


I , 


■^^: 


■  It 


: 


m 


m 


140 


TAKEN  AW  AT. 


was.  "  You  do  not  treat  nic  generously.  Have  you 
no  trust  in  me  ?  Can  you  not  rely  upon  my  love  for 
your  granddaughter,  to  keep  your  secret  and  hers,  and 
judge  for  myself  whether  it  is  sufficient  to  sever  us  for- 
ever. Is  the  whole  happiness  of  my  life  to  be  lost,  for 
a  darkly  mysterious  hint  that  I  cannot  comprehend  ? 
Oh,  Mr.  Kolian  !  remember  that  I  love  her,  that  she 
loves  me  ;  and  pity  us  both  !" 

They  were  standing  on  the  terrace  as  he  spoke,  on 
the  very  spot  where  he  had  stood  with  Eulalie  that 
fatal  evening.  The  old  man  laid  his  hand  kindly  on 
his  arm. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  wish  to  distress 
you.  I  am  the  last  in  the  world  who  would  make  a 
mystery  or  raise  an  obstacle  were  it  in  my  power  to 
avoid  it.  Tt  would  be  the  proudest  and  happiest  day 
of  my  life,  the  day  on  which  I  could  see  my  child  your 
wife,  if  this  reason  did  not  exist  to  render  that  happi- 
ness impossible." 

"  AVhy  impossible  ?"  cried  Arthur,  vehemently ; 
"  why,  if  we  love  and  trust  each  other?  She  has  com- 
mitted no  crime,  Mr.  E,ohan,  that  needs  conceal- 
ment." 

"  She  ?  My  innocent  darling !  who  knows  no  more 
of  the  wickedness  and  misery  of  this  big  world  than  an 
infant!     01^  no  !" 

"  Then,"  cried  Artlr.ir,  still  more  vehemently,  "  she 


I 


iji!?^ 


'i' 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


141 


sliall  not  suffer  for  the  crimes  of  others!  Whatever 
your  secret  is,  Mr.  Rohan,  keep  it !  I  don't  ask  to  know 
it.  She  is  innocent  of  all  evil ;  and,  in  spite  of  ten 
thousand  secrets  I  claim  her  as  my  i">vomised  wife !" 

Mr.  Rohan  caught  none  of  his  enthusiasm.  His  face 
only  clouded  the  more. 

"Poor  boy  !"  he  said,  "  it  is  hard  to  dash  such  high 
hoj^cs.  I  shall  not  dash  them — you  shall  take  your 
answer  from  Eulalie,  if  she  ever  recovers  sufficiently  to 
give  you  an  answer.  When  she  promised  to  be  3^our 
wife,  subject  to  my  consent,  Mr.  Sutherland,  she  was 
as  ignorant  as  you  are  now  of  this  hidden  spring  in  her 
life.  She  learned  it  that  night ;  and  it  was  that  knowl- 
edge, and  not  the  lightning,  that  struck  lier  down.  If 
she  ever  recovers,  she  shall  decide  your  fate  herself, 
unbiased  by  me,  and  you  shall  hear  it  from  her  own 
lips.  If  she  thinks,  in  sjiite  of  everything,  she  can  still 
be  your  wife,  your  wife  she  shall  be,  with  my  heart- 
felt blessing  and  prayeivs  for  you  both." 

Arthur  grasj^ed  the  old  man's  hand,  and  poured  out 
such  a  flood  of  grateful  acknowledgments  as  he  never 
had  listened  to  before.  lie  looked  at  the  flushed,  hand- 
some face,  with  a  sad  smile. 

"Ah  !  it  is  very  little,  after  all,  that  I  am  promis- 
iii":  vou ;  but  Eulalie  shall  decide  for  herself.  The 
poor  child  wants  to  go  home.  Let  us  take  her  home, 
Mr.  Sutherland.     Among  the  old  scenes  and  the  old, 


1  1;  i 


■l^ 


142 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


faitlifnl  faces,  slic  may  recover.  Do  not  come  to  ns. 
Do  Tiot  write  to  licr.  Give  us  time — say  half  a  year  ; 
and  tlion,  wliun  only  the  memory  of  this  sorrowful 
time  reinains,  come  to  our  Cuban  liome,  and  say  to  Eu- 
lalie  what  you  have  said  to  me.  She  shall  do  as  she 
pleases — go  with  you  as  your  bride,  or  remain  with  me, 
without  my  speaking  one  word  to  influence  her.  Will 
you  do  this,  Mr.  Sutherland  ?" 

Poor  Arthur !  Six  months  seemed  a  drearily  long 
time.     But  what  could  he  say,  save  yes? 

"  Will  you  write  to  me  ?"  he  said.  "  Will  you  not 
let  me  know  how  she  is  ?" 

"  Most  certainly !  And  she  shall  write  to  you  her- 
self, if  she  wishes  it.  As  soon  as  she  is  strong  enough 
to  bear  the  journey,  we  shall  start.  The  home  air  will 
restore  her  faster  than  anything  else." 

So  it  was  arranged.     The  matter  ended  with  these 
words,  and  no  more  was  said  on  the  subject. 
The  invalid  still  reiterated  her  mournful  cry  : 
"  Take  me  home,  grandpapa  I     Take  me  home !" 
And  the  old  man's  answer  ever  was  : 
"  Yes,  dear,  ^ve'll  go  home  very  soon  now." 
But,  in  spite  of  the  anxiety  of  both,  it  was  nearly  a 
month  before  the  frail  invalid  could  start  on  that  home- 
ward journey.     Before  the  expiration  of  a  fortnight, 
she  was  able  to  rise  and  lie  all  day  on  the  sofa,  dozing 
the  still,  sultry  hours  away,  or  looking  ^acantly,  with 


TAKEN   AWAY. 


143 


large,  haggard  eyes,  at  the  purple,  sunlit  sky.  In  an- 
other week  she  could  go  down  stairs,  clinging  to  her 
grandfather's  arm — a  poor,  pale  shadow — and,  wrapped 
in  a  large  shawl,  walk  out  feebly  in  the  lovely  green 
arcades  of  Maplewood.  Yery  slowly  strength  of  body 
was  returning  to  that  delicate  little  frame ;  but  strength 
of  mind  came  slower  still.  Nothing  could  arouse  her 
from  that  slow  torpor — that  dull  apathy  to  evci'ything 
aud  everybody.  Whether  it  was  Mrs.  Sutherland,  or 
Augusta,  or  Lucy,  or  Arthur,  it  seemed  much  the  same 
to  her.  She  was  restless,  and  silent,  and  uneasy  with 
them  all.  Only  with  her  grandfather  was  she  at  rest 
and  content. 

At  last  came  the  day  of  departure.  A  very  sad  day 
in  the  Sutherland  mansion,  with  none  of  the  gay  bustle, 
and  pleasant  confusion,  and  hurry,  that  usually  attends 
departures.  The  trunks  were  packed  and  strapped  in 
silence  and  gloom ;  the  last  meal  was  eaten  together  in 
a  dismal  and  comfortless  way  ;  and  Arthur  lifted  Eula- 
lie  into  the  carriage  with  a  face  nearly  as  pale  as  her 
own,  and  a  heart  that  lay  like  lead  in  his  bosom.  His 
mother  and  sister  drove  with  them  in  the  roomy  car- 
riage to  the  depot,  and  he  rode  beside  them  at  a  fu- 
neral pace. 

Little  more  than  a  month  ago,  he  had  ridden  beside 
them,  as  he  was  doing  now,  to  see  Mr.  Rohan  off  on 
his  journey ;  and  how  his  whole  life  seemed  to  have 


If  j; 


144 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


cliaiif]fC(l  since  then  I  How  briglit  the  world  liad  looked 
tliiit  dii)^,  t{ikin<^  its  color  from  liis  own  goodness  of 
heart !  What  Ji  desolate,  blank  waste  it  seemed  now — 
all  things  darkened  by  his  own  gloom  !  He  could  see 
the  frail  little  creature,  who  lay  back  among  the  silken 
cushions,  languid,  and  wasted,  and  wan  ;  and  he  re- 
remembered  how  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  radiant  she 
had  been  that  day !  Only  one  month  ago !  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  ha  \  lived  centuries  since  then. 

The  last  good-bye  was  said,  the  train  went  shrieking 
on  its  western  way,  and  the  Sutherlands  returned  home. 
How  still,  \.ow  ghostly  silent  that  home  seemed?  If  a 
corpse  had  been  carried  out  of  the  house  and  buried, 
the  oppressive  quietude  and  loneliness  could  not  have 
been  greater.  They  all  felt  it.  There  was  so  much  to 
remind  them  of  her — her  empty  and  desolate-looking 
room,  the  music  she  loved  scattered  loose  on  the 
piano,  the  books  she  used  to  read,  her  vacant  seat  at 
the  table,  her  empty  sofa  under  the  amber  curtains  of 
the  bay-window — all  telling  of  some  one  lost,  and  lost, 
perhaps,  forever. 

Mrs.  Sutherland,  standing  by  the  drawing-room- 
window,  in  the  gray  twilight  of  that  same  evening,  was 
revolving  a  plan  in  her  mind  for  changing  all  this.  It 
was  a  dull,  sunless,  airless,  oppressive  evening,  with  a 
low-lying  gray  sky,  from  which  all  rosy  and  golden 
clouds  had  gone ;  and  the  tall  trees  looked  black  against 


TAKEN  AWAY. 


145 


tlie  leaden  baclsi^roiiiKl.  Tlicrc  was  a  rustic  bench, 
under  a  clump  uf  bushes,  visible  from  the  window,  and 
she  could  see  her  son  lying,  v\'ith  his  face  on  his  arm, 
upon  it,  in  a  forlorn  and  hopeless  sort  of  way.  Augusta 
was  gaping  dismally  in  the  ghostly  twilight  over  a 
book ;  and  Lucy,  at  the  i)iano,  was  playing  some 
mournful  air  in  a  wailing  minor  key,  that  was  desola- 
tion itself. 

"This  won't  do!"  thought  Mrs.  Sutherland,  de- 
cisively. "  We  must  have  a  change.  That  2)oor  girl's 
memory  is  like  a  nightmare  in  this  house,  making  us 
all  melancholy  and  wretched.  There  is  that  boy  gone 
to  a  shadow,  and  as  pale,  and  haggard,  and  miserable  as 
if  he  had  lost  every  friend  he  had  in  the  world. 
Augusta,  too,  whoso  spirits  used  to  be  boisterous 
enough  for  anything,  is  moping  herself  to  death  ;  and  I 
believe  I  am  catchina;  the  infection,  for  I  am  nervous 
and  low-spirited,  and  out  of  sorts.  I  shall  leave 
Maplewood  before  the  week  ends,  and  take  them  both 
with  me." 

Mrs.  Sutherland  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  went 
to  work  with  energy.  The  bustle  and  hurry  of  prepa- 
ration turned  the  quiet  house  topsy-turvy,  and  forced  the 
most  torpid  of  them  into  action. 

"  I  am  going  to  Saratoga,  Arthur,"  Mrs.  Sutherland 
said,    with    calm    delermination.      "Augusta    wants 
change ;  and  you  are  to  accompany  and  remain  with 
7 


<r"J 


DT 


I    1'^  ', 


t'   ' 


ill 


143 


TAKEN  AWAT. 


US.  The  g;iy  life  there,  the  fresh  scenes  and  fresh 
faces  will  do  us  all  ^ood.  I  shall  probably  remain  until 
late  in  Sei)teniber,  and  pass  a  month  or  two  in  New 
York  before  returning  here." 

Arthur  listened  listlessly.  He  was  not  to  see  Eulalio 
Hohan  for  six  months ;  and  it  mattered  very  little  to 
him  where  these  six  weary  months  were  passed.  So  ho 
resigned  himself,  "passive  to  all  changes,"  and  saw  to 
the  huge  pile  of  trunks  and  bandboxes,  and  attended 
them  faithfully  to  their  destination. 

And  Lucy  Sutherland,  the  housekeeper,  and  the 
servants,  had  the  old  house  at  Maplev/ood  all  to  thcui- 
selvcs.  Lucy  might  have  gone  to  Portland,  and  spent 
those  months  with  her  mother ;  but  she  liked  the  grand 
house,  and  sunlit  lawn,  and  green  arcades,  and  spreading 
gardens,  and  sea- side  terraces  of  Maple  wood,  far  better 
than  the  dingy  hired  house  looking  out  on  Casco  Bay. 
She  had  her  books  (and  Lucy  was  fond  of  read- 
ing), her  cousin's  piano,  and  her  eternal  embroidery ; 
and  she  liked  being  alone,  and  bore  the  departure  of 
her  aunt  and  cousins  with  constitutional  calm.  Mre. 
Sutherland  had  informed  them  they  were  all  three  to 
be  absent  until  the  close  of  November.  Great,  there- 
fore, was  Lucy's  surprise  when,  before  tlie  fii'st  fort- 
night had  worn  away,  one  of  the  two  returaed.  She 
was  sitting  at  the  piano,  playing  softly  in  the  hot 
twilight,   when  a  tall    form  strode    into    the   room, 


TAKEN   AWAY. 


147 


and  stood  between  her  and  the  red  sunset.  She 
ro30  np,  with  a  face  that  told  no  tales  of  the  rapid 
heart-l)eatin«^  beneath,  and  looked  at  her  couijin 
Arthur. 

"I  could  not  stay  there,  Lucy,-' he  said;  "I  was 
sick  of  it  all  in  ten  days!  What  did  I  care  for  those 
crowds  of  strauire  men  and  women,  and  the  dressin*;, 
and  dancing,  and  drinking,  and  the  rest  of  the  foolery ! 
I  shall  do  far  better  here,  in  this  quiet  place,  und  with 
you,  my  quiet,  fireside  fairy !" 

"  And  your  mother  ?"  Lucy  asked. 

"My  mother  adheres  to  the  ori'iinal  programme. 
She  and  Augusta  like  the  gay  Saratoga  life,  and  dress 
and  drink  water  with  the  best.  I  am  afraid  they  did 
not  like  my  desertion ;  but  they  knew"  no  end  of  people 
there,  and  were  not  likely  to  need  me ;  and  so  I  got 
desperate,  and — here  I  am." 

The  two  cousins  sat  in  the  twilight  a  long  time 
talking,  that  still  sunnnor  evening.  Both  of  them 
thought  of  Eulalie,  but  neither  s^^oke  of  her;  and 
Lucy's  hopes  were  high  once  more.  She  sat  at  her 
window  until  the  midnight  moon  sailed  up  to  the 
zenith,  with  a  flush  in  her  cheek,  and  a  fire  in  her  blue 
cj'cs,  and  a  hopefulness  at  her  heart  all  unusual  there. 
The  black-eyed  siren,  whose  dusky  beauty  had  be- 
witched him,  was  far  away.  All  the  long  summer  sli3 
would  have  him  to  herself,  thrown  entirely  upon  her 


•,  % 


li 


; 


f* 


li'- 


'  ,f- 


III 


:  - 1 


M 


148 


TAKEN   AWAY 


society  in  this  qnict  country-house!  Surely,  surely, 
her  time  had  cone  ! 

Lucy  Siithcrliind  came  out  in  quite  a  new  character 
after  that  night.  She  who  had  always  been  as  silent 
and  as  ta(dturn  as  an  Indian  became  all  ac  once  con- 
v'crsable  and  entertaining.  She  played  for  him — not 
Ycvy  brilliantlj^,  perhaps.  She  walked  out  with  him  ; 
and  asked  him  to  read  aloud  to  her  while  she  work(!d. 
The  old  housekeeper  looked  on  approvingly ;  they  were 
cousins,  and  it  was  all  right ;  and  Arthur  tallied  to  her, 
and  read  to  her,  and  thought  of  her  precisely  as  he 
would  have  talked,  and  read,  and  thought  of  Augusta. 
And  he  would  have  been  almost  as  much  amazed  if  any 
one  had  told  him  his  sister  Augusta  was  in  love  with 
him  as  his  cousin  Lucy. 

There  was  but  one  woman  in  all  the  world  to  him, 
whose  memory  was  a  thousand  times  dearer  than  all 
tlie  cousins  in  existence.  IIow  he  passed  all  those 
long,  long,  purposeless  days,  and  weeks,  and  months, 
thinking  of  her,  dreaming  of  her,  and  praying  for  her, 
he  alone  knew.  IIow  his  mind  ever  went  back  to  that 
one  absorbing  subject,  let  him  talk  of  what  he  pleased 
to  Lucy ;  how  her  face  came  between  him  and  the 
paL  from  which  he  read  aloud ;  how  he  would  shut 
his  eyes  aiid  lean  back  in  his  chair  wdien  Lucy  played, 
and  see  the  fairy  figure  once  more,  in  Lucy's  phice,  and 
hear  the  s^veet  old  Mozart  melodies  she  loved  to  play. 


TAKEN    AWAY. 


U9 


Poor  Lucy !  If  you  had  only  known  how  all  those 
pretty,  tasteful  toilets  were  thrown  away,  how  vain 
were  all  your  efforts  to  please,  you  might  have  saved 
yourself  a  great  deal  of  useless  trouble  during  the  weeks 
of  that,  for  you,  far  too  pleasant  summer. 

The  close  of  the  first  month  brought  a  letter  bear- 
ing the  Havana  postmark.  What  an  event  that  was,  and 
how  eagerly  it  was  torn  open  and  devoured !  It  was 
very  short,  and  very  cold,  the  feverish  lover  thought. 
Eulalie  Vv-as  greatly  improved  since  their  return ;  and 
he  (Mr.  Rohan)  had  strong  hopes  of  her  speedy  and 
perfect  restoration  to  health.  That  was  all ;  but  Arthur 
thanked  God  for  the  news  it  brought,  and  felt  he  could 
wait  mor'^  hopefully  now.  lie  wrote  often,  and  very 
long  letters ;  but  Mr.  IZohan's  replies  were  few  and  far 
between,  and  said  very  little. 

July,  August,  and  September  passed.  Mrs.  Suther- 
land (piitted  ihe  springs,  and  established  herself  tor  a 
cou2)le  of  months  in  New  York.  It  was  bleak  Decem- 
ber, and  the  ground  was  white  with  snow ;  and  the 
green  arcades  and  long  sunny  gardens  were  drear  and 
forsaken.  Then  maples,  and  hemlocks,  and  beeches, 
and  chestnuts  were  gaunt  and  stripped,  and  the  wintry 
blasts  howled  dismally  around  the  old  house,  before  the 
lady  and  her  daughter  returned  to  spend  Christmas  at 
heme. 

But  while  the  world  lay  wrapped  in  its  windings 


\n\ 


KfamMMi 


150 


TAKEN    AWAY. 


f 


Bliect  of  snow,  and  tlie  old  year  was  dying,  w^tli 
nielancliolj  north  winds  shrieking  its  requiem,  and  the 
roses  liad  faded  from  Lucy  Sutlierland's  clieeks  that  the 
summer  had  brought  there,  Arthur  was  in  an  clysium 
of  happiness.  Christmas-eve  had  brought  him  joy,  in 
the  shape  of  a  letter  from  Cuba.  It  was  of  the  brief- 
est, as  usual ;  but  it  contained  these  words,  and  they 
had  transformed  the  scheme  of  the  univei*se : 


"  My  dear  Boy  : — The  time  of  probation  is  past, 
and  you  have  nobly  kept  ^^our  word.  Eulalie  is  per- 
fectly restored  once  more — a  little  quieter  and  more 
womanly  than  of  old,  but  her  restoration  to  health  com- 
plete. You  may  come  to  us  if  you  will.  Eden  Lawn 
is  delight  luI  Jiis  December  weather ;  and  we  will  botli 
rejoice  to  see  you." 


M 


•■^\i 


''COME    WHAT    will:' 


151 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"come  what  will,  I  HAVE  BEEN  BLESSED." 

HE  long  windows  of  the  flat-roofed,  foreign- 
looking  mansion  shone  like  sheets  of  red 
gold  in  the  evening  sunlight.  The  low, 
scented,  tropical  wind  stirred  the  lime-trees 
and  orange-trees,  and  swung  the  creamy  magnolias  and 
clustering  acacias.  It  was  a  January  evening.  The 
snow  was  piled  high  and  the  freezing  blasts  howled 
somewhere ;  but  not  here,  in  this  isle  of  tho 
tropics.  The  red  lances  of  the  sunset  kissed  the 
sleeping  flowers  good-night  as  it  dropped  behind 
the  rosy  horizon,  so  resplendently  brilliant  that  it 
seemed  as  if  some  of  the  glory  of  heaven  shone 
through. 

The  girl  who  lay  languidly  on  a  lounge,  with  a 
book  in  her  hand,  looked  out  with  dark,  dreamy  eyes 
on  the  fading  radiance,  her  thoughts  far  away.  The 
white-muslin  wrapper  she  carelessly  wore  hung  loose 
around  her  wasted  figure,  and  was  hardly  less  colorless 
than  the  face  above  it.     That  dark,  pallid,  Creole  faco 


1 1 

i 


1 


i* 


W 


lis  Si 

'}    m 


h 


H  >  ' 


m  ''\ 


i!  ji; 
H  'i; 

i'! 


152 


"  COifiS    TfiLir    ir/z/v, 


was  unspeiikal)ly  lovely  still,  though  its  brightness  had 
lied;  the  profuse  raven  curls  as  beautiful  and  silky  as 
ever,  and  falling  dank  and  divided  over  her  shoulders, 
like  an  ebon  vail.  The  book  she  held  in  her  hand  was 
half  closed.  She  was  not  reading,  but  thinking  very 
sadly — thinking  of  a  pleasant  Northern  household 
around  which  the  snowdrifts  were  Hying  this  efanuary 
evening,  and  the  desolate  wind  howling  up  from  the 
angry  sea.  She  could  sec  the  long  drawing-room  Avhere 
the  coal  fire  blazed  in  tlie  polished  grates,  the  lighted 
lamps,  and  the  drawn  curtains.  She  saw  a  stately 
elderly  lady,  witii  a  face  pale  and  })roud,  lying  back  in 
an  arm-chair  luxuriously,  "  in  after-dinner  mood,"  with 
half-closed  eyes.  She  saw  a  plum]-),  fair-haired,  rose- 
cheeked  damsel  sitting  at  the  piano,  dressed  in  violent 
pink,  playing  noisy  polkas  or  stormy  mazurkas.  She 
saw  another  young  lady,  robed  in  nmi-like  black,  with 
a  euppressed  look  in  her  pale  face,  and  a  clear,  cold, 
fathondess  light  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  saw  these  three 
wmen  as  she  had  often  seen  them  ;  and  she  saw,  with 
rn  ■•■ling  sense  of  loss  and  desolation  at  her  heart,  a 
foucth  form — a  man's  form — sitting  reading  by  the  light 
of  h  shaded  lamp,  as  she  had  been  wont  to  see  him  sit 
and  read  in  the  happy  days  gone  by.  Did  they  miss 
her  at  all  ?  Did  he  miss  her  ?  In  that  New  England 
mansion,  on  the  stormy  sea-coast,  was  even  the  memory 


in 


/    HAVE    IJEEN    blessed:' 


153 


01  the  Creole  gii-l,  who  luid  once  been  one  of  them, 
forgotten  ? 

While  she  was  thinkinfj  all  this,  the  fadiiiij  sun- 
light  was  darkoncd,  and  a  stranger  stood  before  the 
window.  lie  liad  to  pass  it  to  reach  tlie  door ;  but  the 
low  cry  the  girl  gave  at  sight  of  him  reached  his  ear 
and  stopped  him.  Slie  liad  started  up  in  a  violent 
tremor  aii<l  famtness,  and  lie  had  caught  sight  of  her. 
A  moment  more,  and  he  was  through  the  low,  oi)en 
casement,  holding  her  in  his  arms. 

" My  darling!"  he  cried,  "  have  I  found  you  again  ?" 

She  was  so  agitated  and  so  excited  by  the  unex- 
pected sight  of  him  that  she  could  not  speak.  She 
trend )led  so  as  he  held  her  that  he  grew  alarmed. 

"  My  love !"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  how  you  tremble  ! 
I  have  frightened  you,  I  fear,  coming  so  suddenly. 
Sit  down  here,  my  dearest,  and  try  and  be  calm." 

lie  seated  her  gently  on  the  lounge.  Her  face, 
pji^e  before,  blanched  now  with  the  excitement  of  tho 
moment,  even  to  the  lips.  lie  was  pale  himself  with 
suppressed  agitation,  but  he  was  calm  outwardly,  for 
her  sake. 

"Will  you  not  speak  to  me,  Eulalie?"  he  said, 
holdinjj:  both  her  hands  in  his.  "  You  have  not  said 
one  word  of  welcome  yet." 

She  laid  her  face — her  poor,  pale  face,  down  on  tho 
7* 


•I 


?  \ 


-I! 


II 


i 


I 


I    I 

I 


li  .{I 


^    ill' 


!  'ii 


! ,   i!i 


ii 


Ml 


154 


''COMB     WHAT     WILL, 


dear  liiuids  that  clasped  liers,  and  lie  could  feel  them 
grow  wet  witli  her  tears. 

"  Oil,  Eidalie  !"  he  said,  in  a  distressed  voice,  "are 
yon  sorry  I  have  come  ?" 

"No!  no!"  said  Eulalie,  in  broken  tones,  "no! 
Forgive  nie,  Arthur.  I  am  not  strong — I  am  not  what 
1  used  to  be.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  and  I  am 
very  foolish  to  cry,  but  I  cannot  helj^  it.  Excuse  my 
weakness.     I  will  be  better  in  a  moment." 

Presently  she  looked  up,  with  a  faint  smile  break- 
inij:  throui''h  her  tears. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  distress  you  by  crying  so,"  she  said ; 
"  but  I  have  been  weak  and  nervous  ever  since  I  was 
ill,  and  those  tears  flow  to)  easily.  Thank  you  for  not 
trying  to  stop  me  !" 

"  You  are  not  well  yet,"  Arthur  said,  with  an 
anxious  glance  at  the  thin,  pale  face.  "  Your  grand- 
father told  me  you  were." 

"  And  I  am.  I  am  quite  well  again,  only  not  so 
strong  as  I  used  to  be.     When  did  you  come  ?" 

"  I  reached  Havana  last  evening,  and  have  lost  as 
little  time  as  possible  in  arriving  here." 

"  How  are  all  at  Maplewood — your  mother,  and 
sister,  and  Lucy  ?" 

"  They  are  all  well,  and  all  miss  you  very  much." 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  How  difKcult  it  is,  in 
that   first  meeting,  after  an   ulKsence   of   months    from 


/    HAVE    BEEN    BLESSED.'' 


155 


those  who  arc  dear  to  us,  to  say  what  we  want  to  say 
most.  The  wretclicd  feeling  of  restraint  wc  cannot 
overconae — so  much  to  sa}',  that  we  grow  confused  and 
say  nothing  at  all,  or  only  ask  trivial  questions.  It  waa 
so  v/ith  Arthur  and  Eulalie  now.  With  the  questions 
that  were  to  decide  tlio  whole  future  lives  of  both 
pending,  they  sat  and  talked  the  coirimonest  common- 
place, and  with  long  embarrassing  gaps  between. 

"Where  is  your  grandfather?"  Arthur  asked. 

"  Here !"  said  a  familiar  voice,  before  she  could 
reply.     "Welcome,  my  dear  boy,  to  Eden  Lawn !" 

He  had  entered  quietly,  unobserved,  and  came 
round  from  behind  Eulalie's  lounge,  wdtli  outstretched 
hand  and  friendly  smile.  There  w^as  a  heartiness  in 
his  voice,  a  hospitable  warrath  in  his  manner,  that  was 
a  new  revelation.  The  cold,  watchful,  silent,  gloomy 
old  man,  who  had  been  the  nightmare  of  their  lives  at 
Maplewood,  was  an  entirely  different  person  from  this 
courteous  and  gentlemanly  host,  welcoming  his  guest. 

"  I  heard  your  voice  as  I  descended  the  stairs,"  he 
said.     "  And  how  are  all  at  home  ?" 

Arthur  answered;  and  the  three  sat  long  in  the 
rosy  twilight,  talking.  Mr.  Eolian  was  genial,  and  the 
most  fluent  talker  of  the  three.  The  chancre  in  him 
for  the  better  w^as  really  marvelous.  It  was  as  if  some 
unendurable  weight  had  been  lifted  off  from  his  mind, 
and  that,  relieved  of  that  oppression,  his   nature   re- 


i:: 


r  '1 


1  ^« 


n  f 


<  I 


f'^ 


'i 


i  ^ 


1...  i 
I 


i56 


'^CCME     WHAT     WILL, 


siimcd  its  natural  bent  again.  But  the  spirits  lie  had 
gained,  his  granddaugl.itcr  seemed  to  have  lost. 

Arthur  Sutlierhind  looked  at  her  vith  a  sense  of 
indescribable  pain  at  his  heart.  Let  her  change  as  she 
might,  he  could  ncvei'  love  her  less,  lie  had  given 
her  his  whole  heai't,  and  that  faithful  heart  grieved 
now,  to  see  bow  altered  she  had  grown,  lie  could 
roiiicmber  her,  a  bright  little  iropicJ  llower — as  radiant 
a  little  l)eauty  as  ever  danced  in  the  sunlight ;  and  he 
saw  her  a  woman,  with  haggard  cheeks  and  great  mel- 
ancholy, dark  eyes.  No  common  illness  could  have 
wrought  a  change  like  this.  Was  it,  then,  that  dark, 
that  impenetrable  secret,  that  was  to  stand  between 
them  all  their  lives  ?  Had  the  old  man  cast  off  its  bur- 
den when  he  told  it  ?  and  was  its  shadow,  that  had 
darkened  his  life  so  long,  darkening  hers  now  ? 

Arthur  Sutherland  asked  himself  those  questions  in 
the  solitude  of  his  own  room  that  night.  lie  loved 
her  so  well  and  so  truly — he  trusted  in  her  truth  and 
her  innocence  so  implicitly,  that,  despite  this  dark  bar- 
rier of  a  secret  he  was  never  to  know,  he  could  take 
her  CO  his  heart  to-morrow,  and  I  hank  God  ior  the  gift. 
His  pride  and  his  sense  of  honor  were  as  of  o'd  ;  but 
he  loved  this  dark-eyed  enchdntress,  and  he  felt  that 
liis  life  without  her  A\'ould  be  a  dead  and  dismal  blank 
— useless  to  himselt  or  his  fellow-beings,  ile  had 
tried,  in  the  days  gone  by  to  look  his  worst  far*,  in  tho 


/    HAVE    BEEN    BLESSED.'' 


157 


face — a  life  apart  from  hers — but  he  never  oonUl,  lie 

never  could!     She  seemed  to  1  avc  become  part  of  his 

very  nature ;  and  he  felt — it  wius  very  wrong,  no  doubt 

— that  a  life  separated   from  Eulalif^,  was  a  life  not 

worth  having. 

With  all  this,  Arthur  found  it  was  not  so  very  easy 

to  regain  liis  old  place — to  bridge  over  the  chasm  of 

six    months,   and   stand    on   his   former    footing.     IIo 

found  it  hard  to  speak  of  the  sulvject  that  had  brought 

him  to  Cuba;  but  he  was  so  happy,  only  to  be  with 

Euialie  once  more,  that  waiting  was  not  so  very  trying. 

A  week  passed  away  before  he  ventured  to  speak ;  a 

blissful  week,  that  brought  back  the  old  delicious  time 

when  lie   had   read   and   walked  wiUi   his   dark-eyed 

divinity   in   the   sunnner   twilights   and   sunsets,   and 

listencjd  to  her  playing  all  the  long,  sultry  afternoons. 

She  was  changed  since  then.     She  was  grown  so  very 

quiet ;  and  the   beautiful   eyes  were   so   mournful   in 

their  subdued  light ;  but  no  change  could  make  her 

less  lovely  to  him.     Mr.  Rohan  was  invariably  kind  ; 

he  seemed  trying  to  atone  for  his  past  coldness  and 

reserve  by  his  genial  warmth  and  cordiality  now ;  and 

it  was  to  him  the  young  man  fivst  found  courage  to 
speak. 

They  were  walking  up  and  down  the  lime-walk,  in 

the  coohiess    of    the    early   morning,   wlien    Arthur 

l>roached  the  subject. 


■^1; 

m 

jLltl 

•l»-i 
H 

\   w  H 

'<  i 

'  i  K 

nifl 

1  f:: 


l.-)3 


"  GOME     WHAT     WILL, 


i 


i 


I  i 


I 


h . 


"  You  know,  Mr.  Rohan,"  lie  said,  with  an  agitation 
in  his  voice  no  effort  could  quite  overcome  ;  "  you 
know  the  object  that  has  brought  me  here.  1  have  not 
said  one  word  to  Eulalie  yet.  Have  I  your  permission 
to  62")eak  to  her  ?" 

Mr.  Rohan  looked  kindly  at  the  agitated  face  of  the 
speaker. 

"  Most  certainly,"  he  said.  "  Most  certainly,  my 
dear  boy,  I  told  you,  when  you  spoke  to  me  last,  that 
my  granddaughter  should  never  be  influenced  one  way 
or  other  by  me  in  this  matter.  I  told  you  this,  and  I 
have  kjpt  my  word." 

Arthur  grasped  the  old  man's  hand  in  his  fervent 
gratitude. 

"  Then  I  have  your  permission  to  speak  to  her  at 
once,  to  end  this  suspense  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Rohan  ;  "  whatever  Eulalie  says,  I 
agree  to  beforehand.  You  have  acted  nobly  and  self- 
denyingly,  my  dear  boy,  and  you  are  worthy  of  her. 
Tell  her  what  I  have  said  ;  that  she  is  free  to  act  as  she 
pleases.  Heaven  knows,  the  oiny  desire  for  which  I 
live  is  to  promote  her  happiness !" 

Arthur  waited  for  no  more.  He  knew  where  Eu- 
lalie was  to  be  found,  and  he  sought  her  out  with  a 
radiant  face.  She  was  reclining,  as  usual,  on  a  lounge 
in  the  breakfast  room,  in  a  loose,  white  wrapper,  read' 
ing  from  a  volume  of  poems  he  hijnstilf  had  given  her, 


1    HAVE    liEKN    BLKSSED:'' 


169 


She  dropped  it  suddenly,  for  Artliur  was  beside  her, 
pouring  out,  with  new-found  elocpience,  the  words  he 
liad  come  to  say. 

"  I  have  waited  so  long,  Eulalie,''  he  cried ;  "  I 
have  remained  away  from  ybur  dear  jiresence  for  six 
long  months,  at  your  grandfather's  desire,  and  surely 
now  I  have  some  claim  to  speak.  When  will  you 
keep  your  promise,  Eulalie — when  will  you  be  my 
wife  r 

She  droppnd  her  book,  and  sat  up,  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  frightened  face. 

"Oh,  Arthur!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  must  never 
ask  me  that  question  again  !  I  can  never  be  your 
wife  !" 

Arthur  Sutherland  stood  staring  at  her,  utterly  con- 
founded. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  !"  she  said;  "  forgive*  me,  Arthur! 
It  is  breaking  my  heart,  but  I  cannot  help  it !  When 
T  made  that  promise,  I  did  not  know  what  T  know  now. 
I  can  never  be  your  wife,  Arthur — never,  never !" 

"  Never  !"  re]>cated  Arthur,  white  co  the  very  lips. 
"  Have  I  thus  been  the  dupe  of  a  co(pictte  from  first  to 
lust  ?  Was  I  only  mocked  when  you  told  me  at  Maple- 
wood  that  you  loved  me  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no !"  Ealalie  cried  out,  vehemently.  "  I 
spoke  the  truth.  It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  cannot 
be  your  wife !" 


Hi 


n 


1     t 


■! 

i 


l!    M 

n 


HH     s 


100 


''COME     WUAT     WILL 


Tliat  (larlsly-iriystorions  secret  again  I  Tic  knew 
bIic  referred  to  tluit.  Was  it  to  bo  a  6tiinil)ling-l)l(jck 
in  liis  way  to  the  very  end. 

"I  cannot  understand  this,  Enlalie.  Wliat  is  to 
prevent  your  keeping  your  promise — what  is  to  pre- 
vent your  being  my  wife?" 

Slie  turned  away  from  liim,  and  liid  her  face  in  her 
1  lands. 

'*  J3ecausc — l)ecausc  tliere  is  a  secret  I  can  never  tell 
you — a  secret  of  shame,  and  liorror,  and  humiliation. 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is ;  and  you  yourself  must 
see  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  ever  to  become  your 
wife." 

"What  if  I  do  not  see  it?" 

"Arthur!" 

She  dropped  her  hands,  and  sat  looking  at  him,  in 
wonder. 

"  I  do  not  know  wdiat  your  secret  is.  I  do  not  ask 
to  know  it,"  he  said,  resolutely.  "  I  only  know  that  I 
love  you,  and  that  you  have  never  committed  any 
crime  to  be  afraid  or  ashamed  of.  The  crime  and 
shame  of  others,  however  near  to  you  they  may  be, 
shall  not  wreck  the  happiness  of  our  whole  future 
lives.  I  hold  you  to  your  promise,  Eulalie.  I  ask  you 
again,  when  will  you  be  my  wife  ?" 

Her  breath  came  quick  and  short ;  too  amazed,  too 
happy  to  speak. 


11 


/    liAVfl:     BEEy    niJCSSED.'" 


161 


"  Artlnir !  Arthur !  yon  arc  ppcakiiii^  hastily  and 
iin])iil.siv('l)'  now.  You  may  repent  your  rashnesij  hero- 
after." 

"  I  sliall  never  repent.  I  am  not  speaking  liastily 
or  i!n])ulsively.  1  am  saying  wliat  I  said  six  months 
ago.  I  am  saying  wliat  I  sliould  say  six  ycare  from 
now,  if  you  kept  nic  v/aiting  so  h^ng.  Kulalie,  I  ask 
you  once  more,  when  will  you  he  my  wife  ?" 

"  And  you  ean  trust  me  still,  in  s])ite  of  this  secret 
I  can  never  tell  f ' 

"I  could  trust  you,  my  dearest,  in  spite  of  ten 
thousand  secrets.  I  should  never  ask  any  woman  to 
marry  me  whose  truth  and  honor  I  could  insult  by  a 

douht." 

*'  And  in  the  future,"  Eulalie  said,  pale  and  breath- 
less, "  if  any  evil  slioidd  come,  you  will  not  forget  that 
I  have  warned  you,  and  that  you  take  me  in  spite  of 
everything." 

"  I  shall  never  forget,  ^^o  evil  the  future  can  havo 
in  store  for  me  can  be  half  so  terrible  as  losing  you. 
I  shall  be  able  to  meet  the  worst  evil  undauntedly,  so 
that  I  have  you  by  my  side." 

Her  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  laid  both  her 
hands  in  his. 

"  You  are  very,  very  good,"  she  said.  "  It  shall  bo 
the  study  of  ni)  ^'.''e  to  be  worthy  of  such  confidence 
as  this.     Does  grandpapa  know  of  this  ?" 


t  'f 


^      1 


Iff'f 

j  ' 

ll 

i; 

it 
'"    \ 

1 

i 

t 

1  i 

i 

:                  '. 

1 

•       i 

i 

i 

|B. 

1 

:J 

''  '*■ 

li    1- 

'     i 

1G2 


"  COME     WHAT     WILL."" 


"  I  spoke  to  him  before  I  came  to  you.  Whatever 
you  say,  lie  his  promised  to  indorse.  Dear  Kttle 
hand,"  he  said,  hfting  it  to  his  lips  with  a  radiant  face ; 
"  mine  for  life  now  I" 


TUE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM,  103 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM. 


All  away  from  the  orange  and  citron  groves 
of  sunny  Cuba,  wltli  its  mellow  sunshine 
and  fragrant  l^reezes,  the  snowdrifts  were 
flying  and  the  ^vind  howling  dismally  this 
January  month.  At  Maplewood,  the  tall  trees  rattled 
their  skeleton  arms,  and  the  snow  was  piled  high  in  the 
long  meadows  and  spreading  gardens.  Fence  and  lawn 
were  desertcu,  the  double  windows  made  fast,  heavy 
curtains  shut  ont  the  bleak  daylight,  and  sparkling  fires 
blazed  in  the  polished  grates.  But  life  was  very  pleasant 
in-doors  at  Maplewood,  this  stormy  iSTow-Year  season  ; 
for  ]\[rs.  Sutherland  liad  friends  from  the  city  spending 
the  holidays  under  her  hospitable  roof  ;  and  laughter 
and  merry  voices  rang  from  early  morning  until  late  at 
night  through  the  lately  silent  rooms.  Half  a  dozen 
gay  girls,  with  portly  mammas  and  tall,  mustached 
brothers,  filled  the  empty  chambers ;  and  it  was  noth- 
ing but  party-going  and  party-giving,  and  general  jolli- 
fication these  merry  New-Year  times. 


p      hv  ■        t' 

1   '  '   '■ 

1  § 

1  r 

i  if' 

1 

I'll 


m       i 


ir.4 


27/A'    ZCT:/.    before    the     ST  OEM. 


Tlicrc  was  one  yonng  lady  at  Maplewood  v'lio  took 
very  little  sliure  in  ^liese  gay  doings.  If  an  extra  partner 
■was  wanting  to  fill  «  qnadrille  or  cotillon,  or  a  second 
needed  in  a  dnet,  or  a  snpcrnnnierary  in  a  charade  or 
tableau,  her  services  were  called  into  requisition ;  and 
she  always  did  what  she  was  asked  to  do  with  the  I'cadi- 
ness  of  an  automaton  or  living  machine.  But  she 
never  joined  them  for  all  that.  She  mixed  among 
them,  and  yet  was  as  far  aloof  as  though  she  dwelt  in 
a  desert.  She  was  not  of  their  kind,  and  they  disliked 
her  instinctively  for  it,.as  cordially  as  she  detested  them 
in  the  de])ths  of  her  hcar^.  But  her  face — the  rigidly 
pale  face  of  Lucy  Sutheiland — was  too  well  trained  to 
show  au}^  of  this  detestation.  The  pnid  companion 
knew  her  place  a  great  deal  too  well  for  any  such 
atrocity.  She  flitted  in  and  out  among  them — a  pale, 
silent,  inscrutable  shadow,  puzzling  to  some,  convenient 
to  otliers,  and  liked  by  none. 

With  the  low,  leaden  winter  twilight  of  a  bleak 
January  day  darkening  around  her,  Lucy  Sutherland 
stood  at  the  library  window  looking  at  the  snow  begin- 
ning to  fall.  A  high  gale  surged  through  the  maples 
and  hemlocks  with  a  roar  that  nearly  drowned  the  roar 
of  tlie  surf  on  the  sands.  There  was  a  sobbing  cadence 
in  the  wind  this  wild  winter  evening,  and  the  snow 
fluttered  through  the  leaden  air,  faster  and  faster,  as 
the  darkness  came  on.     A  black  sky  frovmed  over  all, 


■'!< 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    TUB     ST  OHM. 


165 


and  tlic  scene  \\  as  tlic  very  dreariness  of  desolation ; 
but  it  suited  the  mood  of  the  girl  who  watched  it,  far 
better  than  tlie  liihirious  gayety  within.  She  coukl  hear 
them  in  the  drawing-room — some  one  at  the  piano  sing- 
ing "Thou  hast  Learned  to  Love  Another" — sweet 
girlish  voces  blending  musically  with  men's  deep  tones, 
and  their  laughter  coming  softly  in  with  the  music. 
But  wlia!:  had  she,  the  paid  dependent,  to  do  with  music 
and  laughter,  and  rich  and  happy  people?  She  was  not 
missed  or  wanted,  and  so  she  stood  brooding  darkly 
over  her  own  morbid  thoughts,^while  the  snow  beat 
against  the  window  glass,  and  the  stormy  night  shut 
down  in  blackness. 

A  servant  came  in  and  lit  the  gas.  As  she  went 
out  there  was  a  rustle  of  silk,  a  waft  of  perfume,  and 
Mrs.  Sutherland  swept  in,  an  open  letter  in  her  hand, 
and  her  face  radiant. 

"Augusta!  are  you  here?"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  it  is 
only  you,  Lucy.     Have  you  seen  Augusta  ?" 

"  I  think  I  saw  her  going  into  the  conservatory 
with  Mr.  Ilalcombe,  half  an  hour  ago.  Shall  I  go  in 
search  of  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  ffo.  I  must  tell  her  the  c^ood  news.  I  have 
just  had  a  letter  from  Cuba,  Lucy,  and  Artliur  is  mar- 
ried !" 

/Some  one  says  of  Talleyrand,  that  if  he  wero 
kicked    from    behind,   his  face   would    not   show  it. 


^Hi< 

^- 

^iki 

B 

jppjHf^ 

111 

m 

m 

I'j 

m 

\  < 


fi 


I 


\      , 


100 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM. 


r 


Diplomacy,  perhaps,  gave  the  great  statesman  tliat 
wonderful  command  of  countenance,  but  it  comes  by 
nature  to  women.  Lucy  Sutherland  heard  the  news  as 
Mary  Stuart  heard  her  death-bell  toll,  without  flinching. 
She  miglit  have  caught  one  gasping  breath,  with  the 
agony  of  the  first  sharp,  sudden  pang ;  but  even  that, 
her  face  did  not  betray.  Its  pallor  was  habitual  now, 
and  the  gaslight  befriended  her.  Even  her  voice  was 
quite  steady  when  she  spoke. 

"  Permit  me  to  offer  my  congratulations.  lie  is 
married  to  Miss  Rohan  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  Miss  Rohan ;  and  his  letter  is  one  outburst 
of  ecstasy.  As  it  was  written  the  day  after  the  wed- 
ding, that  was  to  be  expected ;  and  Eulalie  is  an  angel ; 
and  he  is  in  paradise.  He  writes  to  say  good-bye,  for 
the  happy  pair  start  for  the  continent  without  coming 
near  us.     Go  find  Augusta,  Lucy ;  I  must  tell  her  at 


once 


)j 


It  was  something  quite  foreign  to  the  usui:l  order  of 
things  for  Mrs.  Sutherland  to  converse  in  this  friendly 
manner  with  her  niece-in-law,  but  she  was  so  uplifted 
on  the  present  occasion  as  to  forget,  for  the  time  being, 
how  much  she  disliked  her. 

"  Tell  Augusta  to  come  at  once,"  Mrs.  Suthcrkind 
called  after  Lucy ;  "  I  must  put  a  stop  to  her  flirting 
with  that  popinjay  Ilalcombe.  Don't  tell  her  what  I 
want  her  for,  either." 


uM 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM. 


107 


Lucy  found  Miss  Augusta  and  Mr.  Ilalcombe  deep 
in  a  desperate  flirtation  among  the  rose-bushes  and 
geraniums,  and  delivered  her  mamma's  message.  The 
dinner-bell  rang  at  the  same  moment^  and  Lucy  went  in 
after  the  rest  with  no  shadow  on  her  stony  face  of  what 
her  heart  was  feeling.  She  listened,  still  with  that 
shadowless  calm,  when  Mrs.  Sutherland  came  back  with 
Augusta,  and  made  public  the  tidings  of  her  son's  mar- 
riage to  the  Creole  heiress,  whose  fabulous  wealth  and 
beauty  was  an  old  story  to  all.  Slie  ate  and  drank, 
while  a  little  tumult  of  congratulation  went  on 
around  her,  and  all  the  time  her  heart  seemed  to  lie 
dead  in  her  breast.  How  desperately,  how  passionately, 
how  insanely  she  had  learned  to  love  Arthur  Suther- 
land she  had  never  dreamed,  until  this  night,  when  the 
last  flickering  hope  died  out,  and  she  knew  she  had  lost 
him  forever.  With  that  face  of  stone,  she  sat  eating 
and  drinking  mechanically,  the  voices  around  her 
blended  in  one  confused  discord,  and  a  dull  sense  of 
horrible  despair  filling  her  breast. 

"  Their  tour  is  to  be  a  prolonged  one  " — the  voice 
of  Mrs.  Sutherland  made  itself  distinct,  saying — 
"  Eulalie  has  never  been  abroad,  and  tbey  jiurpose  re- 
maining two  years.  I  doubt  It,  tbough — that  devoted 
grandfather  and  granddaughter  cannot  remain  aj)art 
half  the  time." 

Of  course   there   was   nothing  else  talked   of    all 


'\ 


108 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM. 


HI    :   i. 


VM 


tliroiiLcli  (liiincr  but  tlic  wedding,  and  tlic  great  riches 
and  greater  beauty  of  the  Creole  bride.  Arthur  Suth- 
erland wiis  the  niost  fortunate  of  men,  all  agreed ;  and 
the  ladies  wondered  what  the  bride  wore,  and  how 
many  bridesmaids  she  had ;  and  whether  she  was  mar- 
ried in  a  bonnet,  or  bridal- vail  and  wreath ;  and  if  it 
was  at  church  or  at  home. 

"  In  church,  I  daro  say,"  Augusta  said ;  "  these 
Catholics  like  to  be  married  in  church,  I  believe  ;  and 
Eulalie  was  always  very  devout." 

Lucy  Stitherland,  wearing  that  ineffably  calm  face 
of  hers,  made  herself  very  useful  that  evening,  as 
nsual.  She  walked  through  two  or  three  sets  of  qua- 
drilles— she  played  waltzes  and  polkas  for  the  rest — and 
went  np  \.o  her  room  past  midnight,  and  was  alone 
with  her  despair  for  the  first  time.  She  had  loved  him, 
she  did  love  him — and  she  had  lost  him  forever! 
Thousands  of  other  poor  hearts  liave  wailed  out  daily, 
and  do  wail  out,  that  same  pitiful  ciy ;  but  that,  I  am 
afraid,  makes  it  none  the  easier  to  bear.  She  had  been 
a  block  of  stone  down-stairs,  but  here,  locked  in  her 
own  room,  with  no  witness  save  Heaven,  she  could  be 
a  woman,  and  do  battle  with  her  womanly  agony,  and 
go  down  among  them  when  to-morrow  came,  a  statne 
once  more. 

The  holidays  pjisscd  very  pleasantly  at  Maple  wood. 
The    merry    ringing    of    sleigh-bells,    or   the    joyous 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM. 


1G9 


face 


qiia- 


statue 


langliter  of  skaters,  made  music  in  the  January  sun- 
si  lino  all  day  long,  and  dancing,  and  dressing,  and  feast- 
ing, and  flirting,  stole  away  the  "  rosy  liuurs  ■ '  of  the 
wintry  night.  It  was  all  very  delightful  indeed,  and 
everybody  said  Maplewood  was  the  dearest  old  place  in 
the  world,  and  hated  to  tear  themselves  away  when 
the  niontii  of  February  came  round.  With  her  guests 
departed  Mrs.  Sutherland  and  Miss  Augusta,  for  the 
gay  Hfe  of  the  city. 

"  It  will  be  so  horribly  lonely,  you  know,"  Mrs. 
Sutherland  said  ;  "  after  the  pleasant  time  we  have  had, 
for  me  and  Augusta  to  mope  ourselves  here  until  next 
summer.  Besides,  it  would  be  unfair  to  her,  to  bury 
her  in  her  very  fii'st  season  in  an  old  country  house.  I 
shall  leave  Lucy  Sutherland  in  charge  and  go  to  New 
York." 

So,  early  in  February,  to  New  York  they  went,  and 
Lucy  was  once  more  alone.  Perhaps  not  one  of  the 
gay,  fashionable,  frivolous  people  who  bade  her  adieu, 
thought  whether  or  not  she,  a  young  girl  like  them 
selves,  might  not  find  it  lonely,  immured  in  this  big, 
empty  house  all  alone,  like  Marianna  in  the  moated 
grange.  She  was  scarcely  a  human  being  to  them ; 
only  a  pale,  s  lent,  noiseless  shadow,  coming  and  going, 
and  forgotten  as  soon  as  out  of  sight. 

"Ilow  that  long  winter  did  drag  itself  out,  she  alone 
ever  knew.    About  once  a  month  came  a  letter  from 
8 


mi 


170 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM. 


.f  9.-   1  ! 


Augusta,  bringing  spasmodic  scraps  of  news  from  tlio 
gi'eat  outer  world.  She  and  mamma  were  liaving,  oh, 
such  a  splendid  time ;  and  there  was  another  letter  from 
Arthur  and  EuLilie,  and  they  wore  in  France,  or  Ger- 
many, or  Switzerland,  or  somewlere  else,  and  too 
happy   ur  words  to  Icll 

Mrs.  Sutherland  founr'  the  ciry  so  pleasant  that  the 
genial  spring  months  found  her  liTi^a-ing  still.  May 
came,  and  June,  and  July ;  and  the  mistress  o:  Maple- 
wood  and  her  daughter  were  at  New  York,  and  lugusta 
was  having  a  more  splendid  time  than  ever.  Once 
again  the  maples,  and  hemlocks,  and  pines,  and 
tamaracks,  were  out  in  tleir  green  summer  dress,  and 
the  shadows  flickered  and  fell  on  the  velvety  terrace 
overlooking  the  sea,  where  Arthur  Sutherland  had 
wooed  his  bride.  Once  again,  the  songs  of  countless 
birds  made  the  amber  summer  air  vibrate  with  word- 
less melody  ;  and  the  August  and  September  roses 
lifted  their  flushed  heads  in  the  golden  heat. 

The  long  summer  vore  itself  out  as  the  winter  had 
done ;  and  still  Lucy  was  the  pale  recluse  of  Maple- 
wood,  seldom,  save  on  Sunday  morning,  passing 
beyond  the  great  entrance-gates.  But  when,  in  the 
glorious  autuTnn  the  maples  and  hemlocks  burst  out  in 
an  oriflamme  of  crimson  and  yellow,  and  the  apple  and 
pear  and  plum  trees  in  the  orchard  were  laden  to  the 
ground  with  their  luscious  load,  Mrs.  Sutherland  came 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM. 


171 


lioinc,  w'  'i  licr  daiigh.Lcr  lUi "!  anotlK  r  flock  of  city- 
frluuds,  1/  feoeiid  luitUinn  and  Cliris^-'iias  and  New 
Year's  iv   ler  New  England  homestead. 

"  Go-  dness  gracious  me,  Lucy  Sutliei'land !"  Augusta 
cried ;  "  wnat  Iiavu  yon  been  and  done  to  yourself  all 
these  ages  ?  You  look  like  somebody  that  had  been 
dead  and  buried  and  come  to  life  ai:ain  by  mistake. 
Can't  you  do  something  for  her,  Phil,  in  the  ])ill  or 
j)i)wder  line,  to  keep  her  from  looking  so  awfully 
corpse-like  as  tiiat  ?" 

For  Philip  Sutherland  was  back  -^gain  at  ]\raple' 
wood.  "  Time,  that  blunts  the  edge  of  thing^^,  dries 
our  tears  and  sj^oils  our  bliss  " — time  had  brought  such 
balm  to  him,  that  he  could  bear  once  more  to  look  on 
the  scene  of  his  love  and  his  despair.  Fifteen  months 
is  a  tolerable  time  to  heal  a  broken  heart,  particularly 
when  that  heart  belongs  to  a  man  ;  and  Philip  Suther- 
land could  eat,  drink — ay,  and  be  merrj",  too,  though 
the  woman  he  loved  was  the  wife  of  another  man. 
But  the  great  trouble  of  his  life  had  left  its  indelible 
traces,  as  all  great  troubles  must  do  ;  and  he  had  grown 
ten  years  older  in  gravity  and  staidness,  dui^ing  these 
lifteen  months.  He  looked  at  Lucy  ]^ov:  with  that 
grave  face  tliat  was  so  new  to  liim. 

"  My  solenm  Lucy,  you  do  look  old  enough  to  be 
your  own  grandmother,"  he  said ;  "  no  wonder, 
though,  shut  up  here  all  alone,  like  an  oyster  in  its 


r<»!i 


m 


mm 


17a 


TnE    LULL    BEFORE    TUE     STORM. 


,<► 


It 


I   I' 


-h  < 

!.  I.     (f 


v'  i: 


I 


i 


pn  !i 


bIicII.  The  only  wonder  is  you  have  not  gone  ineUn- 
clioly-nuul  long  ago." 

Lucy  looked  lit  liim  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 
"He  tiilks  of  what  he  knows  nothing  about,"  she 
tlionght;  "I  shall  be  lonely  now  that  all  these  men 
and  women  are  here.     I  was  not  before  they  came." 

So  the  ^veeks  went  on,  with  Lucy  counting  them  in 
their  flight.  Christmas,  and  the  IS'ew  Year  came  in 
robed  in  snow,  and  departed,  and  Mrs.  Sutherland  and 
lier  friends  departed,  too.  They  had  flown  back  to 
the  city,  not  to  retnrn  until  June,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Arthur  Sutherland  were  expected  heme. 

But  Lucy's  solitude  was  over,  for  April  brought  a 
troop  of  workmen — carpenters  and  masons  and  land- 
gcape-gardeners  and  uj^holstercrs — to  refit  and  refur- 
nish the  old  mansion  for  the  reception  of  its  master 
and  mistress ;  and  workmen  and  laborers  were  in  and 
out,  and  u])  and  down  stairs,  and  the  sound  of  hammer 
and  plane  resounded  from  morning  till  night.  But 
out  of  the  chaos  of  noise  and  dirt  and  confusion,  order 
and  liarmony  came  at  last.  Most  elegant  harmony, 
too.  The  house  was  like  a  palpable  fairytale,  in  its 
new  beauty  and  splendor,  and  June  roses  waved  in  a 
sort  of  modern  Garden  of  Eden.  The  house  had  been 
fitted  up  superbly,  and  landscape-gardeners  had  been 
working  miracles.  Mrs.  Sutherland  and  Augusta  went 
into  feminine  raptures  over  their  old  home  in  its  trans- 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STORM, 


173 


foriiKition.  Thoy  IkicI  come  alone  tliis  time.  It  was 
hard  1 J  likely  Arthur  and  Eululie,  weary  of  traveling, 
and  Umging  for  the  peace  and  rest  of  home,  would  care 
to  find  a  houseful  of  fashionable  strangers  in  possession 
before  them.  And  besides,  there  was  i)Oor  dear  Eula- 
lie's  mourning  for  her  grandfather;  for,  nearly  six 
months  previously,  the  old  millionaire  had  gone  to 
that  workl  of  shadows  from  which  all  his  golden 
thousands  could  not  save  him  one  poor  second.  lie 
had  gone — and  how  the  granddaughter,  who  had  loved 
him  so  devotedly,  had  mourned  him,  they  could  only 
conjecture,  for  her  brief  letters  did  not  tell.  Those 
countless  thousands  were  all  her  own  now;  and  the 
baby  that  opened  its  eyes  first  in  this  mortal  life  in 
Florence  the  Beautiful,  w^as  surely  born  with  a  golden 
spoon  in  its  mouth. 

"  I  do  want  to  sec  the  baby,  yoti  know,"  was 
Augusta's  cry ;  "  because  the  idea  of  Arthur's  baby  is 
Bomething  too  absurd.  If  I  had  only  been  born  to 
fifty  or  sixty  hundred  thousand,  I  dare  say  my  snub 
nose  would  not  be  thrown  in  my  face  every  day  of  my 
life,  as  it  is  now." 

It  was  in  the  golden  haze  of  a  June  twilight  that  the 
travelers  came.  Mrs.  Sutherland,  Augusta,  and  Lucy 
stood  in  the  doorway  to  welcome  them,  and  Lucy's 
face  was  whiter  than  snow.  Arthur,  sunburnt  and 
bearded  and  bronzed,  and  handsomer  than  ever,  hissed 


11  ^ 


I 


'•I 
I 

I 


i 


^^s 


171 


TJIF.    LULL    BEFORE     THE     STOliM. 


I  m 


h'  111 


■i    I, 


!  :i 


I  I 
1: 


tliciii  Jill  round  ;  and  Eulidio,  beautiful  as  a  dream,  in 
her  deep  niourniiii^^  wept  on  tlie  motherly  Ijreast  of 
Mrs.  Sutherland.  A  little  paler  than  of  old,  a  little 
less  hrilliantlj  bri^dit,  but  indeseribahly  more  lovely. 
AVifehood  and  maternity,  too  holy  and  intense  in  its 
liappiness  for  words  to  tell,  had  wrou'^ht  their  inevita- 
ble ehani,^e  in  lier.  Ihit  the  entrancing;  beauty  was  all 
the  more  entrancing  for  the  change  ;  and  it  needed 
only  one  look  to  tell  you  that  this  man  and  wife  were 
truly  united,  and  as  perfectly  and  entirely  happy  as  it 
is  possible  for  creatures  in  this  lower  world  to  be. 

A  Swiss  nurse,  with  a  round,  high-colored  face  and 
a  fuimy  cap,  got  out  with  a  bundle  in  her  arms.  The 
bundle  turned  out  to  be  the  baby  ;  and  Augusta,  with 
a  little  screech  of  delight,  made  a  grab  at  it,  and  tore 
off  its  wra])pings,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  baby's 
little  mamma. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beauty  !  Oh,  what  a  j^erfect  love  of 
!  a  baby  T'  was  Aunt  Augusta's  cry.  "Oh,  wh.it  lovely 
'  black  eyes  and  black  curly  hair.  It's  the  very  image 
of  Eulalie,  and  not  a  bit  liice  you,  Arthur." 

''  I  like  it  all  the  better  for  that,'.'  smiled  Arthur. 
"  Louisa,  don't  let  her  tear  your  nursling  to  pieces,  if 
you  can  help  it.  It  is  in  imminent  danger  of  being 
kissed  to  death." 

The  Swiss  honne  came  forward,  and  took  the  little 
black-eyed  atom  from  Augusta,  and  followed  the  rest 


THE    LULL    nEFOUE     THE     STOllM. 


175 


into  tli(3  house.  It  liad  its  mamma's  wonderful  Creole 
eyes,  tliis  tiny,  pale-faced,  solemn-looking  baby,  and 
Jiad  not  one  look  of  the  Sutherlauds  in  its  infantine 
physio^iijnomy.  It  was  Eulalie  Rohan  over  again,  as 
Kulalie  llohan  must  have  looked  at  live  mouths  old — 
not  beautiful  now,  but  with  the  serene  promise  of 
future  beauty  in  its  baby  face. 

Lucy  Sutherland,  pale,  silent  and  shadowy,  hovered 
in  the  background,  like  any  other  shadow,  all  that 
evening,  and  watched  the  wife  of  Arthur  Sutherland 
furtively  but  incessantly  from  under  her  pale  eye- 
lashes. The  change  in  the  Creole  puzzled  her.  Two 
years  ago,  she  had  been  the  most  childish  of  spoiled 
children  ;  now  she  was  a  woman.  A  woman,  with 
deep-dented  lines  of  care  and  thought  in  her  smooth 
forehead,  with  gravely  earnest,  almost  mournful,  dark 
eyes.  The  gaslight  fell  dull  on  her  black  dress ;  but 
neither  the  outward  nor  the  inward  mourning  for  that 
beloved  parent  could  have  wrought  this  change ;  for 
she  was  unspeakably  happy,  you  could  see,  loving  that 
handsome  husband  of  hers  witli  a  passionate  devotion 
that  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  but  few  men  to  be  loved. 
Slie  loved  and  trusted  him  with  her  whole  heart  and 
soul,  as  these  impassioned  daughters  of  the  South  have 
an  unfortunate  way  of  doing,  and  she  was  happy  and 
blessed  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  tell.  What, 
then,  was  the  trouble  that  had  wrought  a  revolution  in 


.  < 


176 


THE    LULL    BEFORE    THE     STOUM. 


her  whole  nature,  that  had  furrowed  so  early  that 
young  brow  ? 

lu  the  solemn  and  lovely  starlight,  Lucy  sat  up  in 
her  own  room,  watching  the  big  round  midnight  moon 
sailing  through  a  cloudless,  serene  sky,  and  asked  her- 
self the  question.  The  life  that  lay  before  these  two 
promised  very  brightly  to-night ;  but  far  off,  invisible 
to  every  eye  save  her  own,  the  pale  watcher  saw  a  dark 
cloud,  slowly  gathering. 

"  I  hate  her !"  Lucy  Sutherland  said  to  her  own 
heart ;  "  I  hate  her,  and  I  hope  and  pray  and  trust  I 
may  li\e  to  see  her  ruined  and  disgraced.  There  is  a 
secret  in  her  life — a  dark,  disgraceful  secret,  that  I  will 
find  out,  if  I  spend  my  life  in  the  search ;  and  when  I 
see  you  down  in  the  very  filth  under  my  feet,  I  will 
cry  quits  witli  you,  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland  1" 


A2'    THE    GONGERT, 


177 


I 


CHAPTER  XI. 


,  (. 


AT  THE  CONCERT. 

TIE  prettiest  of  little  onnolii  clocks,  standing 
on  the  low  marble  mantel,  stiiick  up  a 
lively  Swiss  waltz,  preparatory  to  striking 
eight,  as  Lucy  Sutherland,  in  full  dress, 
:)pened  ilm  heavy  oaken  door,  and  entered  the  boudoir 
of  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland.  In  full  dress,  with  Miss 
Liicy  Sutherland,  meant  a  robe  of  pale  lavender  crape, 
as  dim  and  shadowy  as  herself,  and  a  few  knots  of 
ribbon,  a  shade  or  two  deeper  in  tint.  Tlic  charming 
boudoir  of  the  charming  wife  of  Arthur  Sutherland  wiis 
a  mirocle  of  taste  and  luxury  and  beauty — a  fitting  nest 
for  the  tropical  bird  who  owned  it.  The  bright  June 
moonlight,  streaming  in  between  the  curtains  of  rosy 
silk,  fell  in  squares  of  silvery  luster  on  the  thick,  soft 
Persian  carpet  and  the  gems  of  pictures  on  the  tinted 
walls.  Opposite  the  door  was  an  archway  lumg  with 
rose  silk.  Lucy  lifted  the  curtain,  and  stood  in  the 
dressing-room  of  her  cousin's  wife. 

A  beautiful  rooui — more  like  a  sea-nymph's  grot 

3+ 


'i»,i  ■ 


I'i:  m 


T  'V« 


■uMjimui  'nimwiiimnuiii,afc.,.auiunww 


'1 


p! 


178 


AT    TUB    C  ONCE  JIT. 


i    I 


tlian  an  apartment  for  aiiytliing  mortal.  A  carpet  that 
looked  like  tangled  moss ;  pale  green  walls,  with 
painted  })anels,  where  mermaids  and  mermen  disported 
themselves  in  foamy  billows ;  with  conches  and 
ottojiians,  cushioned  in  green  velvet,  and  great  mirrors 
flashini;  hack  ou  either  hand  this  sea-ii:reen  crrot.  A 
lovely  room,  for  the  lovely  little  lady  standing  before 
the  exquisite  dressing-table  full  in  the  light  of  a  dozen 
wax  tapt!rs,  taking  a  last  look  at  her  own  enchanting 
beauty.  She  wore  black  lace  that  swept  the  cai'pet 
with  its  ill  my  llounces;  and  pale  oriental  p'-irls 
glinnnered  like  wan  stars  in  midnight  in  her  hair,  and 
around  the  perfect  throat  and  arms.  IJeautiful  she 
looked,  this  starry-eyed,  jettydiaired  little  Creole  wife 
— a  beauty  born — and  looking  lovelier  to-night  than 
ever  before,  Lucy  thought,  bitterly,  in  the  depths  of 
her  envious  heart. 

A  vivid  foil  to  the  glowing  little  southern  beauty, 
in  her  dark  drapery,  stood  Augusta,  in  a  violet  pink 
dress,  and  flashing  tlianu)nd  necklace  and  cross. 
Triline,  Eulalie's  maid,  was  just  fastening  the  barbaric 
diamond  eardrops  in  her  ears  when  her  cousin  entered. 

"  Dressed,  Lucy,''  Airs.  Arthur  said,  with  that 
radiant  smile  of  hers,  "  and  not  fifteen  minutes  since 
you  went  U]vstairs.  There  is  an  example  for  yo  i  and 
me,  Auii'usta." 

lon't   care   about  followmg  Lucy's,  example," 


"I    d( 


AT    TUE    CONCERT. 


179 


said  Augusta,  with  a  Frencli  slirug,  lean  xrom  Tri- 
line.  "  Tlio  role  of  tlie  Princess  Perfect  never  suited 
me,  but  Lucy  takes  to  it  as  naturally  as  life.  You  have 
moped  and  moped,  and  grown  dismal  and  corpselike, 
shut  up  in  this  big  barn  of  a  house  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end,  and  Prince  Perfect  is  verj-  loQg  in  coming. 
Isn't  he,  Lucy,  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  quiet  Lucy,  "  i)erliaps  so ;  but  no 
longer  coming,  Miss  Sutherland,  than  the  Prince  for 
whom  you  have  been  angling  so  desperately  these  List 
two  years." 

Eulalie  lauo-hed :  and  Auf^usta,  conscious  of  beiui' 
well  dressed,  and  of  looking  her  best,  made  a  little  wry 
face. 

''  Don*t  be  cantankerous,  Lucy,  it's  an  old  maid's 
privilege,  I  know,  but  don't  use  it,  dear.  There!  that 
will  do,  Tritine  !     How  do  I  look  ?" 

"  Cliarming !"  cried  Mile.  Triiine ;  and  Mrs. 
Arthur  Sutherland  echoed  the  flattering ;  but  Lucy 
only  eyed  her  with  a  little  sour  glance  of  disdain. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  look  charming,  too,  Lucy, 
dearest  and  best  ?"  inq'iired  Augusta,  provokingly. 
"  Of  course,  you  do  ;  but  tlio  extent  of  your  admira- 
tion renders  you  speechless.  Don't  trouble  yourself 
to  put  it  in  woi'ds,  love — TH  take  it  for  granted.  By- 
bye,    Eulalie.     T    must    go    and    dis2)lay    myself    to 


m 


,ii 


;    .■;f, 


II 


i 


I -I 


i  li  n 


-.1  i^  I 


i 


IZl^Z^""""'''^"^'"-"'"  ""'"'" '""''^''*""''°m*w> 


1 
I 


^3 


I 


I 


;iii;' 


i 


I 


i! 


I  i 


II 


K|;| 


I      I 


180 


AT    TEE    CONCERT. 


mamma,  to  be  revised  and  corrected  before  going 
down." 

Off  swam  Miss  Augusta,  making  a  mock  obeisance 
to  Luc}^  in  passing.  The  Id  armed-neutrality  existed 
still  between  these  two ;  and  Lucy  and  Augusta  hated 
each  other  with  a  cordial  intensity  truly  womanly. 
Lucy's  position  in  the  family,  hitherto  painfully  unde- 
fined, had  latterly  been  more  decidedly  fixed.  When 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland  had  returned,  she 
spoke  one  day  to  the  new  mistress  of  Maplewood  of 
leaving,  and  had  been  met  with  an  earnest  protest. 

"  I  shall  feel  lost  if  you  go,  Lucy,"  Eulalie  had 
said,  imploringly.  "  You  don't  know  how  ignorant  I 
am,  and  how  stupid  I  am  about  housekeeping.  I 
couldn't  order  a  dinner,  you  know,  or  see  after  the 
servants,  or  know  whether  anything  was  done  right  or 
wrong,  and  you  will  do  me  the  greatest  favor,  my  dear 
cousin,  by  stopping  here  and  taking  all  the  trouble  oS. 
my  hands.  Besides,  Lucy,  Maplewood  would  not  be 
Maplewood  without  your  quiet  face  within  its  walls." 

"  You  mean,  Mrs.  Sutherland,"  Lucy  said,  coldly, 
not  deigning  to  notice  the  caressing  words — *'you 
mean  you  want  a  housekeeper,  and  you  offer  me  the 
situation." 

"O  you  d/cadt'ul  matter-of-fact  Lucy,"  laughed 
Eulalie.  ''You  mrt  as  matter-off  art  as  some  grim  old 
man  of  bv^Itits,-,     Yet.-,  if  }0U  will  put  it  so,  I  do  want 


AT    THE     CONCERT. 


181 


you  to  be  my  housekeeper.     My   poor,  dear   Arthur 
must  go  diimerless,  I  am  afraid,  if  you  do  not." 

Lucy  Sutherland,  homeless  and  friendless,  was  only 
too  glad  to  accept  an  offer  which  meant  nothing  to  do 
and  a  high  salary  for  doing  it.     But  she  closed  with  it 
as  coldly  and  thanklessly  as  she  had  hitherto  accepted, 
ungraciously,  a  home  in  the  family.     So  she  was  house- 
keeper at  Maplewood  now,  and  jingled  the  keys  at  her 
girdle,  and  issued  her  mandates  to  the  servants,  and 
came  to  Mrs.  Arthur  in  a  coldly  formal  way  for  her 
own   directions;    and   hated  her   all   the    while,   and 
watched  her  like  a  spy  by  night  and  by  day.     Eulalie, 
with  the  princely  spirit  nature  and  education  had  given 
her,  heaped  costly  presents  on  this  pale,  silent,  impene- 
trable  consin-in-law,    whom    she   could    not    take    to 
kindly,  somehow ;  and  Lucy  accepted  everything,  still 
thankless  and  still  unthawed.      The  costly  jewelry,  the 
rich  dresses,  Eulalio   forced  upon  her  with  a  lavish 
hand,  were  so  much  "  portable  property,"  she  might 
one  day  turn  into  current  Gf4^  0^4  ''se  to   bring  aboi 
Eulalie's  own  downfall.     She  took  *he  ^ifts  and  hat^ 
the  giver,  and  Eulalie  knew  it  by  &(/im  ifimmta}.    - 
second-sight. 

"  She  doesn't  like  me,  poor  soul !"  she  said  t/j  ^tur 
husband.  "  I  suppose  she  thinks  me  foolish  and  ig- 
norant ;  and  I  know  I  am,  too." 

"  Because  you  don't  understand  the  art  of  cookii  ^ 


■:,  ;,:u 


lii 


'SI 


.1,. 


i 


^^'^mmi^mmms.^'. 


1  :.:  ■ 


182 


AT    THE    CONCERT. 


I 


1 


!  ! 


breakfast  and  making  coffee,  my  dear  little  good-for- 
iiotliing  wife,"  laughed  Mr.  Sutherland.  "  I  don't  think 
it  would  accord  with  the  universal  iitness  of  things  to  see 
my  elegant  little  Eulalie  bending  over  a  cook-stove,  or 
simmering  over  jellies  in  a  hot  kitchen.  Still,  I  think 
you  mistake  about  Lucy  :  she  is  one  of  your  silent, 
impenetrable  sort — human  icicles,  that  wouldn't  thaw 
in  thu  tro])ics.  Iler  lines  have  not  fallen  in  very 
pleasant  places,  poor  girl !  and  her  loveless  life  has 
intensilied  her  reserved  and  undetnonstrative  na- 
ture." 

Mrs.  Sutherland-,  senior,  going  b.?ck  to  the  city  very 
soon,  w\as  only  too  thankful  to  have  the  responsibility  of 
Lucy  shifted  off  hcv  shouxuers. 

"  She  is,  without  exception,  the  most  disagreeable 
creature  I  ever  met,"  said  the  elder  lady  to  her 
daughter-in-law;  '^but,  I  dare  say,  she  will  serve  you 
well  enough  as  a  housekeeper.  T  never  liked  her ;  the 
mere  sight  of  her  irritates  me,  and  I  am  glad  to  be  so 
well  rid  of  her." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland's  dear  fi^'e  hun- 
dred friends  had  called  upon  them  immedial-ely  .ifter 
tiieir  return ;  and  now  a  ball  was  to  be  given  at  Maple- 
■svood,  to  which  the  dear  five  hundred  were  invited. 
jMrs.  Sutherland  and  Augusta  departed  for  Saratoga 
directly  after ;  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  remained 
for  the  summer  at  home,  by  the  young  wife's  desire. 


AT     TUB     CONCERT. 


183 


"  We  have  had  cnoiigli  of  sii^ht-Bccing  and  rjaycty 
and  society  wliile  we  were  abroad,  dear,"  slie  saidj 
chni;iiii!;  lovingly  to  lier  Imsbaiid;  "  and  I  am  so  tired 
of  it  all,  and  1  want  to  he  at  home,  and  at  peace,  with 
only  you  and  bahy.  I  want  to  stay  at  home,  Arthur, 
in  this  beautiful  old  home  of  ours,  where  so  many 
happy  days  have  been  spent,  and  shut  out  the  great  big 
tumultuous  world  outside,  if  I  can." 

Lucy  Sutherland  watched  her  this  night  of  the  ball 
as  she  always  watched  her,  furtively,  as  a  cat  watches  a 
mouse.  She  looked  after  her,  with  a  sinister  look  in 
her  pale  eyes,  as  she  went  into  the  nursery  before  de- 
scending to  the  ballroom.  It  was  a  dainty  little  .ipart- 
n\ent,  all  gauzy  white  drapery,  with  a  carefully  lI  M^ed 
lamp,  and  the  most  elegant  and  exquisite  of  tiny  cribs 
for  the  heiress  of  all  the  Sutherlands.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  nineteen  years  there  had  been  a  Iniby  in  Maple- 
wood  ;  and  from  stately  grandmannna  down  to  Betty, 
the  cook,  baby  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  kissed  to 
death.  There  never  was  a  baby  in  the  world  like  it, 
of  course ;  everybody  said  so  but  Lucy  Sutherland,  and 
Lucy  never  had  anj'thing  at  all  to  say  on  the  sul)ject. 
She  was  the  one  Mordecai  at  the  king's  gate ;  and  she 
watched  Eulalie  bend  over  the  crib  now  with  a  cold, 
hard,  evil  glitter  in  her  eyes.  It  was  a  pretty  picture, 
too — the  lovely  3^oung  mother  in  her  misty  lace  dress  and 
floating  black  curls,  looking  little  more  than  a  child 


{} 

'it 

111 


•I  ii'i 


184 


111 


■I 


I 


i 


I 


II 


AT    TEE     CONCERT. 


herself,  bending  over  the  cradle  of  her  first-bom.  But 
Lucy  hated  mother  and  child — hated  them  with  a  vin- 
dictive intensity  that  these  frozen  natures  are  capable 
of  once  in  a  lifetime. 

The  happy  wife  of  the  man  she  had  loved  and  had 
lost  could  not  fail  to  be  other  than  an  ol>ject  of  abhor- 
rence to  ber;  and  the  beauty,  the  L'^rnce,  and  the 
fabulous  fortune  of  the  young  Creole  wife  \vere 
each  an  item  to  render  her  more  and  more  abhorrent. 

The  ball  that  night  at  Maple  wood  was  a  brilliant 
success.  The  dusky  splendor  of  Mi's.  Arthur  Suther- 
bmd's  beauty  had  never  before  so  dazzled  the  eyes  of 
the  good  people  of  St.  Mary's.  She  was  like  some 
little  tropical  bird,  in  her  glowing  and  dusky  loveliness, 
that  had  fluttered  by  chance  down  here,  in  this  staid 
New  England  home. 

"  By  George  ?  whj '  a  perfect  little  beauty  she  is !" 
more  than  one  enthusiastic  gentleman  ci'ied.  "  Suther- 
land's the  hickiest  fellow  alive,  to  win  such  a  wife,  and 
such  a  fortune." 

Lucy  Sutherland,  never  relaxing  that  pitiless  watch 
of  hers,  saw  Mrs.  Arthur  some  half  dozen  times  dui-ing 
the  night  glide  out  of  the  heated  and  gas-lit  and 
crowded  ball-room,  up  stairs,  to  that  pretty  room  where 
her  baby  slept.  *'  Where  the  treasure  is,  there  shall 
the  heart  be  also."  And  Eulalic,  bending  down  to  kiss 
the  sweet  baby -face,  was  far  happier  than   when  sur- 


i    '■■  I 


AT    THE     coy  CERT. 


183 


rounded  by  her  hosts  of  admirers.  Lucy's  pule-bluo 
eyes  saw  this  with  a  gleam  of  demoniac  triumph  in 
their  steely  depths. 

"  If  I  fail  every  other  way,"  she  thought,  "  I  can 
Btrike  her  at  any  time  through  that  child.  It  would  bo 
a  very  stupid  way,  though ;  and  I  think  the  mystery 
that  is  hidden  in  her  life  will  come  to  light  yet,  and 
save  me  tlie  trouble.'^ 

The  ball  passed  off  brilliantly ;  and  in  the  gray  and 
dismal  dawn,  the  guests  drove  away  from  Maplewood. 
Two  days  later,  Mrs.  Sutherland  and  Augusta  took  their 
departure  for  gayer  scenes,  promising  to  return  for  the 
Christmas  holidays;  and  the  family  at  Maplewood 
were  left  alone  to  begin  their  new  life. 

A  very  quiet  life.  No  visiting,  no  calling  that 
could  be  avoided,  no  party-giving  or  going.  Airs. 
Arthur  Sutherland  had  grown  strangely  quiet,  grave 
Lucy  could  hardly  be  more  of  a  recluse  than  she.  If 
she  went  out  at  all,  she  went  reluctantly,  and  under 
protest.  She  was  so  happy  at  home  ;  she  said  she 
wanted  nothing  of  the  world  outside,  and  she  liad  ac- 
quired a  nervous  dread  of  meeting  strangers.  If  she 
rode  out,  or  walked  out,  it  was  always  closely  vailed — 
she,  who  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  wearing  a  vail. 
Even  in  her  visits  of  charity  to  the  sick  and  the  poor 
of  the  neighborhood,  even  in  her  Sunday  drives  to  and 
irom  the  church,  she  never  went  now  without  a  screen- 


m 


h 


'il 


ill 


I 


i  I  hit 


■  I'. 


1 80 


AT    THE    GONCEllT. 


H 


f  i  ■ 

*    I. 


'/  I 


iw^  vuil.  Ilcr  hnslxiiid  laughed  at  and  ridiculed  her 
Bti'aiii^e  whims;  but  he  reiiicirdjcred  all  these  wretched 
details  al^terward,  in  the  miserable  days  so  near  at 
hand. 

So  near  at  hand,  and  yet  just  now  how  cloudless 
the  sky  looked — how  very,  very  happy  those  married 
lovers  were?  Too  happy  to  last ;  for  this  perfect  bliss 
cannot  lon<j!;  endure  in  this  lower  world.  Eulalie — 
tatK/lit  in  her  convent-school  that  jicrfect  happiness  is 
only  to  be  found  in  heaven — nestling  sometimes  in  her 
husband's  arms,  would  look  up  In  his  smiling  face  with 
g.eat  solemn  black  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  we  arc  too  happy !"  would  be  her  cry. 
"  It  makes  lue  afraid,  this  groat  and  perfect  bliss. 
AVhat  liave  we  ever  done  to  deserve  it,  when  so  many 
better  than  -we  are  have  nothing  but  siiiTering  and 
misery  all  their  lives  I  Arthur,  dearest,  I  am  afraid  it 
cannot  last." 

"  My  foolish  little  j^et,"  her  husband  would  laugh, 
"  what  put  such  dismal  notions  in  your  curly  head  ? 
Deserve  it  1  Why,  are  you  not  a  sort  of  uncanonized 
saint  ?  And  o^  for  me — well,  I  don't  set  up  for  an 
archangel ;  but  then  I  never  murdered  any  one.  Of 
couree,  it  will  last.  'What  can  possibly  happen  to  mar 
our  bliss?'' 

''  What !"  Eulalie   repeated,  her  dark  face  paling, 


f  ^ 


A  T    THE    CONCERT. 


18- 


aiul  lier  dark  eyes  dilating  witli  a  sort  of  liorror.    "  Oh, 
Artlmr,  Arthur!  if  I  lost  you,  I  should  die." 

Arthur  Sutherland  stooped  down  and  kissed  iho 
lo\'ely  face  with  all  the  passionate  devotion  of  his 
wooing-days. 

"  My  love,  how  can  you  talk  of  such  dreary  things  ? 
I  know  how  it  is — you  are  growing  morhid  and  melan- 
choly and  dismal,  shut  up  here  from  week's  end  to 
week's  end.  You  must  go  out  more,  my  little  wife. 
Not  a  word,  now.  I  am  going  to  turn  tyrant,  and  will 
have  it !  You  have  been  shut  up  long  enough  like  a 
nun  in  her  cell." 

The  evening  after  this  conversation,  Mr.  Suther- 
land, riding  home  in  the  twilight,  found  his  wife,  as  he 
had  tii'st  beheld  her,  lying  in  the  recess  of  the  drawing- 
room  window,  wrapped  in  a  crimson  shawl,  and  nestling 
luxuriantlv  amonu:  the  silken  i)illows.  Unlike  that  first 
evening,  this  sununer  twilight  was  black  and  overcast. 
The  sky  above  was  leaden,  without  one  relieving  streak 
of  light ;  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  ceaselessly,  and 
the  wind  wailing  through  the  maples  had  a  melancholy 
moan  in  its  voice  that  was  like  a  human  cry  of  pain. 
A  wild,  wet,  windy  evening  without,  but  the  long  draw- 
ing-room looked  cozy  and  home-like.  Eulalie  nestled 
among  her  cushions  like  a  little  dark  sultana;  Lucy 
bent  over  a  book  at  a  distant  window,  oidy  pausing 
now   and   then  to  look  out  at  the  storm ;  and  Louise, 


I 


1  ii 


^*i^ 


m 

w 


■ll 


'■( 


m 


J 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


121 


no 


|25 


Sf  m  ' 


2.2 


?  ■-  IIIIIM 


1.8 


1.4 


1.6 


^ 


% 


/: 


V 


/A 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


188 


AT    THE    COKrJERT. 


the  Swiss  honne,  with  little  black-eyed  baby  Eulalie  in 
her  lap,  sat  on  a  low  rocker,  swaying  to  and  fro,  and 
einging  softly  some  lullaby  of  her  native  land.  Mr. 
Sutherland  bent  over  his  wife,  and  aroused  her  with  a 
kiss. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  !"  Eulalie 
cried,  clinging  to  him,  with  that  dusky  pallor  in  her 
Creole  face,  and  that  terrified  look  in  her  great  eyes, 
that  sometimes  startled  him.  "  I  have  been  asleep  and 
dreaming — oh,  such  a  terrible  dream  1" 

"  Terrible  dreams,  I  dare  say !  It's  raining 
like  a  water- spout,  and  the  wind  is  howling  among 
the  trees  out  there  in  a  way  that  would  give  any 
one  the  horrors.  What  have  you  been  dreaming  about, 
petite  r 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  about  grandpapa." 

"  "Well,  and  what  about  grandpapa  ?" 

Her  arms  tightened  around  his  neck,  and  he  could 
feel  the  frightened  throbbing  of  her  heart. 

"  Arthur,  I  saw  him.  I  saw  him  as  plainly  as  ever 
I  saw  him  in  my  life.  lie  came  and  stood  here  beside 
me,  looking  down  on  me  as  he  used  to  look — poor, 
dear  grandpapa! — only  far  more  sorrowfully,  and  far 
more  warningly.  He  did  not  seem  to  speak,  and  yet  I 
felt  as  though  he  had  come  to  warn  me  of  some  awful 
danger  near  at  hand.  Oh,  Arthur,  I  am  afraid  1  Wliat 
do  you  think  it  can  mean  3" 


AT    THE    CONCERT. 


189 


'i 


She  clung  to  him  as  a  scared  child  would  cling 
to  its  father,  looking  up  at  him  with  her  great,  wild, 
wide  eyes. 

Arthur  Sutherland,  for  the  first  time,  became 
really  alarmed.  Tlie  old  fear  that  had  come  to  hiin  the 
very  first  night  that  they  had  met — the  fear  she  was 
going  insane — struck  on  his  heart  like  ice.  He 
folded  her  close  to  his  breast,  while  he  tried  to 
laugh. 

"  My  foolish  Eulalie  I  "Who  would  have  thought 
you  so  superstitious — so  silly?  The  i-ainy  day  has 
made  you  low-spirited,  and  you  have  had  a  dismal 
dream ;  and  here  you  are  trembling  with  the  dread  of 
you  know  not  what !  Come !  I  have  a  cure  for 
the  blues.  You  and  Lucy  are  to  go  out  with  me  this 
evening." 

Lucy  Sutherland  lifted  her  head  from  her  book  for 
the  first  time.  Not  once  had  she  stirred.  Not  once 
had  the  colorless  lashes  lifted  off  tlie  pale  blue  eyes ; 
and  not  one  word  of  the  conversation  between  husband 
and  wife  had  escaped  her.  But  Lucy  did  not  believe 
in  dreams,  and  her  face  was  immovably  calm  as  she 
looked  at  her  cousin. 

"  Go  out  this  rainy  evening  ?"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of 
calm  inquiry. 

^^In  ihe  carriage  you  can  defy  the  rain.  All 
St.  Mary's  are  on  the  qui  vive.      All    St.    Mary's 


r,  t 


11 


190 


AT    THE    CONCERT, 


are  going ;   and   the   ladies   from    Maplewood    must 
go,  too." 

lie  drew  from  liis  pocket,  as  he  spoke,  a  huge  play- 
bill, with  letters  a  foot  long,  and  flourished  it  before 
their  eyes. 

"  Here  you  are  I 

"  '  The  Ethiopian  Troubadours  I  Positively  two 
nights  only.' 

"  That  means  a  week,  at  least." 

"  ^  Unrivaled  attraction  I  The  audience  kept  in  roars 
of  laughter.' 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  my  solemn  Lucy  ?  *  Go  early  if 
you  wish  good  seats.'  Mrs.  Sutherland,  will  you  have 
the  goodness  to  be  dressed  ))y  half-past  seven  2" 

"  Arthur,  I  don't  care  to  go." 

"That  does  not  make  the  slightest  difference, 
madam.  I  have  issued  my  sovereign  commands,  and 
on  your  peril  you  and  Lucy  are  to  disobey.  You  are 
to  dress  in  your  prettiest ;  and  no  vails,  remember.  I 
won't  have  it.  And  be  ready  precisely  at  half-past 
seven.  I  would  not  miss  hearing  the  Ethiopian 
Troubadours  for  a  kingdom." 

Of  course,  after  such  imperious  orders,  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  obedience.  Under  his  jocose  tone, 
Arthur  Sutherland  was  very  much  in  earnest.  He  saw 
that  his  wife  needed  change — needed  society — needed 
amusement — and  he  determined  to  insist  for  the  future 


AT    THE    CONCERT. 


191 


on  her  going  out  more.  But  slie  was  strangely  and 
unusually  reluctant  to  leave  home  to-night.  All  might 
have  been  the  effects  of  her  dream  ;  but  her  mind  was 
full  of  ominous  forebodings  all  the  while  her  maid  was 
dressing  her.  Arthur,  waiting  for  her  in  the  dmwing- 
room,  took  both  lier  hands  in  his  when  she  came  down, 
and  looked  at  her. 

"  My  pale  little  girl,  what  have  you  done  with 
your  rosy  cheeks  ?  You  are  as  white  as  a  winter 
snow-wreath,  and  your  hands  are  like  ice.  Oh,  this 
will  never  do!  I  shall  take  you  away  from  Maple- 
wood  over  the  world  again,  if  you  keep  on  like 
this." 

"  No,  no !"  Eulalie  cried.  "  Not  away  from  Maple- 
wood,  where  I  have  been  so  very,  very  happy !  I 
am  only  a  foolish  child,  as  you  say ;  but  I  will  try 
and  grow  wise  and  womanly  for  your  sake,  my  dar- 
ling." 

Lucy  came  in  with  her  noiseless  tread  as  she 
spoke ;  and  Mr.  Sutherland,  offering  an  arm  to  each, 
let  them  to  the  carriage.  As  it  drove  through  the 
blind  darkness  of  the  sultry  night,  the  rain  beat  cease- 
lessly against  the  glass,  and  the  wind  shrieked  dismally 
up  from  the  sea. 

The  stormy  night,  however,  seemed  to  have  little 
effect  on  the  music-loving  people  of  St.  Mary's. 

The  long  concert  hall,  ablaze  with  ilhmiination,  was 


w 


% 


i 


f  1 


11 

r'  ■ 


192 


AT    THE    CONCERT, 


filled  to  repletion  when  the  Sutherlands  entered,  and  a 
low  murmur  of  admiration  ran  round  the  crowded  hall 
at  sight  of  the  beautiful  wife  of  Arthur  Sutherland. 
That  gentleman,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  and  Miss 
Lucy  following  close  behind,  made  his  way  to  three 
reserved  seats  near  the  stage,  nodding  to  his  friends 
right  and  left  as  he  passed  along.  The  drop-curtain 
was  down,  but  the  orchestra  was  in  full  blast  as  they 
settled  themselves  in  their  seats. 

"  Here  are  programmes  for  you,  ladies,"  Mr. 
Sutherland  said.     "  Up  goes  the  curtain  !" 

The  drop-curtain  rose  as  he  spoke,  disclosing  the 
Ethiopian  Troubadours,  nearly  a  dozen  in  number,  with 
shining  black  faces,  standing  in  semicircle,  and  bowing 
to  the  audience.  The  orchestra  struck  up  a  symphony, 
and  one  of  the  Troubadours,  in  a  very  fine  tenor  voice, 
had  just  commenced  one  of  the  popular  songs  of  the 
day,  when  the  concert-hall  was  electrified  by  a  wild, 
prolonged  shriek — a  woman's  wild  scream — a  sudden 
disorder  and  commotion  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  every 
one  up  on  their  feet  in  consternation,  demanding  to 
know  what  was  the  matter.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  a 
gentleman  (Mr.  Arthur  Sutherland)  went  past,  white 
to  ghastliness,  carrying  a  "fainting  lady  in  his  arms. 
The  lady  was  his  wife,  and  Miss  Sutherland  was  hastily 
following. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  startled  audience  could 


AT    THE    CONCERT. 


108 


find  out  what  it  was.  Then  a  rumor  ran  round.  Mrs. 
Sutherland,  apparently  in  the  best  of  health  and  spirits, 
had  been  reading  the  names  of  the  Troubadours,  on  her 
bill,  when  she  had  suddenly  sprang  up  with  that  terri- 
fying shriek,  and  fallen  forward  in  a  dead  swoon. 


'' 


I! 


'Am 


n''!i 


I'  I  JS( 


104 


Mli.     GASTON   DENOIR, 


CHAPTER  XII. 


MR.   GASTON   BENOIR. 


HE  thriving  village  of  St.  Mary's  contained, 
among  its  other  public  buildings,  two 
hotels — the  Weldon  House  and  St.  Mary's 
Hotel.  The  Weldon  House  was  the  po2)u- 
lar  stopping-place  of  all  strangers  in  the  village; 
whether  it  was  owing  to  the  capital  table  and  beds  you 
got  there,  or  the  channs  of  the  buxom  widow  lady  who 
kept  it,  or  her  four  fair  daughters,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  The  Ethiopian  Troubadours,  coming  to  St.  Mary's 
strangers,  and  inquiring  for  the  best  hotel,  were  directed 
to  the  Weldon  House  ;  and  accordingly  in  the  Weldon 
House  these  eminent  gentlemen  had  ];jitched  their 
tents. 

On  the  morning  after  the  concert,  quite  a  lively 
crowd  were  assembled  in  the  spacious  parlor  of  that 
establishment.  There  were  the  four  Misses  Weldon, 
some  two  or  three  lady  boarders,  a  few  of  the  village 
young  ladies,  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  Troubadours. 
They  were  animatedly  discussing  the  concert,  witli  tlie 


MR.     OASTON   BENOIR. 


105 


exception  of  one  young  lady,  who  sat  by  a  window,  and 
whose  foot  kept  beating  an  impatient  tattoo  on  the 
carpet,  while  her  eyes  never  left  the  door ;  a  remark- 
ably pretty  girl,  witli  long  golden-l)rown  curls,  violet- 
bluo  eyes,  rosebud  cheeks,  and  lips  as  sweet  as  ever 
were  kissed.  This  young  lady  was  Miss  Sophie 
Weldon,  se«;ond  daugliter  of  Madame  Weldon ;  and 
that  she  was  impatiently  waiting  for  the  entrance  of 
some  one  was  very  evident.  Iler  silence  and  distant 
mpnner  at  length  struck  the  lady  who  sat  placidly 
crocheting  beside  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  our  Sophie  this  morning?" 
demanded  the  lady.  "  She  has  generally  enough  to  say 
for  herself,  but  to-day  she  sits  as  solemn  as  an  owl,  say- 
ing nothing,  and  watching  that  door." 

"  "Watching  that  door !"  repeated  Miss  Sophie's 
eldest  sister,  maliciously,  "  which,  being  interpreted, 
means  watching  for  Mr.  Bcnoir." 

The  rosebud  tinge  on  Sophie's  fair  cheek  turned 
suddenly  to  big  round  roses,  and  there  was  a  general 
laugh  among  the  company. 

"  Benoir's  a  lucky  fellow,"  said  one  of  the  Trouba- 
dours ;  "  but  then  he's  used  to  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
don't  know  what  kind  of  taste  the  women  have  got, 
for  I'll  swear  he's  next  door  to  a  nigger." 

"  Who  is  ?"  inquired  a  new  Troubadour,  sauntering 
lazily  in  ;  "  you  don't  mean  me,  do  you  ?" 


I ) 


106 


MR     OASTON   BENOin. 


Thoro  was  a  pau8o  of  consternation,  and  Miss 
Sophie's  violet  eyes  grew  as  bright  as  stars. 

"  Speak  of  the — I  no,  I'll  not  say  it,  ladies  being 
present,"  said  another  Tronbadour.  "  Brown's  just 
called  you  a  nigger,  Benoir — meaning  no  offense.  By> 
the-bye,  have  you  got  over  the  shock  yet  of  having 
your  song  interrupted  last  night  ?" 

"  Who  the  deuce  was  it  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Benoir ;  "  I 
mean  the  lady  who  screamed  and  fainted." 

"  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland,  of  Maple  wood,"  replied 
the  eldest  Miss  Weldon.  "  I  suppose  it  was  the  heat, 
and  she  is  a  delicate  little  thing,  any  way." 

"  I  had  a  good  look  at  her,"  said  one  of  the  Trouba- 
dours; "she  sat  right  in  front,  and,  by  Geoige!  she  is 
the  stunningest  little  beauty  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"  Oh !  she's  lovely !"  cried  Miss  Sophie,  rapturously, 
"  I  could  sit  and  look  at  her  for  a  week.  She  is 
prettier  than  any  picture  I  ever  saw,  with  those  great 
black  eyes  of  hers,  and  that  beautiful  smile.  And,  do 
you  know,"  exclaimed  Miss  Sophie,  struck  by  a  sudden 
inspiration,  "  I  think  she  looks  ever  so  much  like  Mr. 
Benoir !" 

Mr.  Benoir  bowed  profoundly. 

"  Thanks,  Mademoiselle,  you  do  me  proud !  I 
should  like  to  have  a  look  at  this  beautiful  lady  whom 
I  resemble  so  much.  Is  there  any  hope  of  seeing  hei 
?Ji  the  concert  to-night  ?" 


Mli.     GASTON   BENOIR. 


107 


"  TTardly,  after  her  fainting-fit  of  last  evening  ;  and 
Blie  scarcely  ever  goes  out ;  or  if  she  docs,  it  is  always 
closely  vailed." 

"  Vails  ought  to  be  indicted  as  a  public  nuisance," 
said  Mr.  Benoir ;  "  thai  is,  on  pretty  women.  Ugly 
ones,  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  ugly  ones,  do  well  to 
mask  their  bad  looks  under — " 

Mr.  Benoir  stopped  short,  for  there  was  a  little 
cry  from  Misb  Sophie,  who  had  glanced  out  of  the 
window. 

"  Oh,  Emily !  I  declare  if  here  is  not  Miss  Lucy 
Sutherland  I     What  in  the  world  brings  her  here  ?" 

"  She  cannot  be  coming  here,"  said  the  eldest  Mish 
VVeldon,  going  precipitately  to  the  window ;  "  sho 
never  was  here  but  once  in  her  life,  and  that  was  to 
collect  money  for  the  new  church.  She  is  too  proud. 
My  stars,  though,  if  she  is  not !" 

There  was  a  general  flutter  of  expectation  among 
the  company,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mrs.  Weldon  her- 
self appeared,  ushering  in  Miss  Lucy  Sutherland. 
Miss  Weldon  arose,  and  presented  a  seat. 

"  Don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  Miss  Sutherland  said, 
smiling  graciously.  "  I  called  to  ask  after  Fanny — I 
heard  in  the  village  she  was  ill." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  I'm  sure.  Miss  Sutherland," 
said  Fanny — the  youngest  Miss  Weldon — answering 


' 


i 


Hf 


»  I 


108 


MR.     GASTON    BENOIR. 


m 


J 


for  herself.  "  I  had  a  soro  throat  yesterday,  but  it  is 
ahnost  well  now,  thank  you." 

"And  how  is  Mrs.  Sutherland?"  inquired  Miss 
Wcldon ;  "  I  was  so  sorry  to  see  her  faint  at  the  concert 
last  ni<^ht.     Is  she  better  again  V^ 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Sutherland,  whose  eyes  had  been 
wandering  furtively  from  face  to  face  of  the  silent 
Troubadours  ever  since  her  entrance,  "  she  is  very 
poorly.  She  was  ill  and  hysterical  all  night,  and  the 
doctor  never  left  her.  She  fell  asleep  for  the  lirst  time 
just  before  I  came  away." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  sympathy  among 
the  ladies,  and  Miss  Sophie  inquired  if  she  supposed  it 
was  the  heat. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Sutherland  ;  "  it  might 
have  been,  for  poor  Eulalie  is  not  very  strong." 

Mr.'Benoir,  who  had  been  leaning  lightly  over  the 
back  of  a  chair,  taking  very  little  interest  apparently 
in  the  conversation,  started  as  suddenly  and  violently 
at  this  last  speech  as  if  he  had  received  a  spear-thrust. 
He  turned  round  and  faced  Miss  Sutherland  with  a 
strange,  eager  look  in  his  eye. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  but  did  you  call 
the  lady  Eulalie?" 

Miss  Lucy  Sutherland  lifted  her  eyes  in  calm  sur- 
prise to  his  face,  and  took  a  long  look  before  she 
answered  him.     He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  this 


! 


r 


ifn.     OASTOH    BENOIR. 


100 


I:        ! 


Mr.  Bcnoir — Mr.  Gaston  Bcnoir,  «afl  his  name  read  on 
the  playbills — with  a  dark,  Southern  kind  of  beauty 
rarely  perfect  in  its  way.  No  features  could  bo  more 
exquisite ;  no  eyes  could  be  lar<^cr,  blacker,  or  moro 
splendidly  luminuus  ;  no  teeth  could  bo  whiter  or  more 
even;  no  hair  could  be  darker,  or  moro  silken  and 
curly. 

He  was  tall  and  perfect  of  form  as  as  of  face,  with 
a  clear,  dark,  olive  complexion.  He  wore  a  thick, 
jetty  mustache,  and  spoke  with  a  slightly  foreign 
accent,  but  in  excellent  English.  To  a  casual  observer, 
he  was  only  an  uncommonly  handsome  you.ig  man ; 
but  Lucy  Sutherland  was  a  physiognomist,  and  under- 
lying all  that  dark  beauty  she  saw  that  this  man  was 
crafty,  and  cruel,  and  sellish,  and  sensual,  and  a  villain  I 
She  saw  it  all  in  that  one  glance  ;  and  then  the  light 
blue  eyes  shifted  and  fell. 

"Mi-s.  Sutherland's  name  is  Eulalie,"  she  said, 
calmly.     "  May  I  inquire  why  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  I  once  knew  a  person  of  that  name  whom 
I  have  not  seen  for  years,  and  it  is  a  name  one  does  not 
often  hear.  It  was  in  Louisiana  I  knew  the  person ; 
but  Mrs.  Sutherland,  I  presume,  has  never  been 
there  ?" 

"I  think  not.  Mrs.  Sutherland  is  a  native  of 
Cuba." 

"  Cuba !"     Again  Mr.  Bcnoir  started,  and  his  dark 


ill 


:  I 


"    S 


iJ 


jii  V 


I   !• 


*  i 


i'li' 


;^i 


Hi 


II 


I 


200 


MR     GASTON   BENOIR, 


face  fTuslied  hotly.  "  Cuba !"  he  repeated  eagerly, 
"  May  I  ask  if  her  maiden  name  was  Rohan  ?" 

Miss  Sutherland  and  every  one  else  in  the  room 
looked  at  Mr.  Benoir  in  surprise. 

"  It  was,"  Miss  Sutherland  said.  "  Did  you  ever 
know  Eulalie  Rohan  ?" 

Mr.  Benoir  turned  away  suddenly,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  in  a  manner  that  prevented  them  from 
seeing  his  face.  When  he  spoke,  his  tone  and  words 
were  carefully  guarded. 

"  I  have  been  in  Cuba,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  heard 
of  Mr.  Rohan  and  his  granddaughter.  No,  Miss 
Sutherland,  I  never  saw  Miss  Eulalie  Rohan." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  walked  out  of  tho 
room,  bowing  slightly  to  the  company. 

They  all  saw  him  as  he  went  out,  and  the  flush  had 
left  his  handsome  face,  and  he  was  white  even  to  the 
lips. 

Miss  Lucy  Sutherland  only  lingered  a  few  moments 
lovvger,  and  then  took  her  departure.  Mr.  Benoir  was 
Ic  Liiiug  over  the  balcony,  smoking  a  cigar,  as  she 
p-Mcd  ;  and  she  gave  him  a  sidelong  look  from  under 
her  light  lashes. 

"  It  is  as  I  suspected,"  she  thought,  as  she  walked 
slowly  homeward.  "  It  was  never  the  heat  made 
Eulalie  Sutherland  faint  last  night.  "What  is  she  to 
this  man?    What   is  he   to   her?    He  is  handsomer 


jli 


MR.     GASTON    BENOIH. 


201 


than  any  one  I  ever  saw ;  and  h^  has  known  her  in 
Cuba.  I  am  sure  of  that,  in  spite  of  his  denial.  la 
this  the  dark  m3^stery  that  overshadowed  her  grand- 
father's life  and  here ;  and  is  the  day  of  her  disgrace 
and  downfall  nearer  at  hand  than  ever  I  thought  ?" 

Mr.  Gaston  Benoir  lingered  so  long  on  the  balcony 
smoking  cigars,  that  pretty  Sophie  Weldon  lost  patience 
waiting  for  him,  and  made  her  appearance  there  too. 
Mr.  Benoir  started  up,  flung  away  his  cigar,  and  offered 
her  his  arm. 

"  I  am  tired  of  solitude  and  my  own  thoughts,  Miss 
Sophie,"  he  said  ;  "  and  was  just  wrishing  for  you.  It 
looks  delightfully  cool  down  there  in  the  orchard, 
under  the  trees.     What  do  you  say  to  a  walk  ?" 

Miss  Sophie  had  no  objection.  It  would  have  been 
a  strange  proposal,  indeed,  she  would  have  objected  to, 
coming  from  Mr.  Benoir.  She  had  seen  him  the  day 
before  for  the  first  time ;  but  pretty,  blue-eyed  Sophie 
had  a  susceptible  heart ;  and  Mr.  Benoir's  handsome 
face  had  wrought  fearful  havoc  there  already. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  long  orchard,  where  the 
apple-trees  were  in  bloom  ;  and  the  handsome  Trouba- 
dour and  the  pretty  village  girl  walked  up  and  down 
uninterrupted.  Mr.  Benoir  was  a  good  talker,  and 
told  Sophie  charming  tales  of  his  wanderings  by  sea 
and  land.  But,  presently — Sophie,  thinking  of  it  in 
the  tragical  after-days,  never  knew  how — he  led  the 


I 


Mir 


I 


202 


MH.     GASTON   BENOIR. 


conversation  round  to  tlic  Sutherlands,  to  Mrs.  Arthur 
Sutherland  particularly  ;  and  Sophie  found  herself  tell- 
ing him  all  she  knew  of  that  lady.  It  was  not  a  great 
deal.  She  remembered  when  she  had  first  come  to  St. 
Mar)''s,  with  her  grandfather,  and  Mrs.  Sutherland, 
and  Miss  Augusta,  from  Cuba,  and  what  a  sensation 
her  beauty  created  far  and  wide.  Then  came  Mr. 
Arthur,  who  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once,  as  all  St. 
Mary's  knew ;  and  then  followed  the  time  when  she 
was  struck  by  lightning,  and  lay  ill  unto  death.  Then 
came  the  journey  back  to  Cuba  ;  the  dreary  probation 
Mr.  Arthur  spent  at  Maple  wood ;  and  then  his  own 
departure  for  Cuba,  and  the  wedding  which  followed. 
Then  there  was  the  long  bridal-tour,  the  grandfather's 
death,  and  the  return  with  the  foreign  nurse  and  the 
baby.  They  li  ad  been  at  Maple  wood  ever  since,  going 
out  very  little,  and  seeing  little  company,  and  loving 
each  other,  as  every  one  knew,  better  than  ever  hus- 
band and  wife  loved  one  another  before. 

Mr.  Gaston  Benoir  listened  to  all  this  with  a  very 
attentive  face.  He  did  not  speak  during  the  recital, 
until  his  fair  companion  had  done.  Then  he  asked  a 
question  : 

"These  Sutherlands  are  very  proud  people,  are 
they  not?" 

"  Proud  !  Yes  ;  tlie  proudest  family  in  St.  Mary's. 
Mrs.  Sutherland  would  not  think  a  princess  too  good 


Mli.     OAST  ON    BENOIR. 


203 


for  her  son.  If  Miss  Rohan  had  been  less  of  a  beauty, 
and  less  of  an  heiress,  and  less  grand  every  way,  she 
never  would  have  consented  to  the  match." 

Pretty  Sophie  "Weldon,  in  saying  this,  was  not 
looking  at  Mr.  Benoir,  or  she  might  have  been  startled 
by  the  change  in  his  face.  Such  a  look  of  triumphant 
malice  overshadowed  it,  such  a  derisive  light  flashed 
from  his  black  eyes,  that  Sophie  might  well  have  been 
staggered  to  know  what  it  meant. 

"  I  think  I  hear  some  one  calling  you,'*  was  Mr. 
Benoir's  first  remark ;  and  "  Sophie,  Sophie,  where  are 
you  ?"  shrilly  called  in  the  eldest  Miss  Weldon's  voice, 
confirmed  his  words. 

Sophie,  only  too  happy  to  be  just  where  she  was, 
frowned  ;  but  Mr.  Benoir,  with  all  his  politeness,  looked 
relieved  as  he  led  her  back  to  the  house.  The  other 
Troubadours,  scattered  about  the  balcony  smoking  and 
reading,  smiled  significantly  as  the  pair  came  up  ;  but 
Mr.  Benoir  paid  no  attention  to  any  of  them.  He 
turned  off  up  the  road,  walking  slowly ;  and  one  of  the 
TroubadourSj  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  hailed 
him  : 

"  I  say,  Benoir !  where  are  you  bound  for  ?" 

"  To  see  the  lions  of  St,  Mary's,"  Mr.  Benoir  re- 
plied, without  looking  round. 

"  And  don't  you  want  company,"  pui*sued  the 
speaker,  winking  at  a  fellow-Troubadour. 


!l! 


(, 


!li 


\m  I 


-  ^^ 


I 


204 


MR.     OASTON    BENOIR. 


"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  not  yours  1" 

With  Avhich  rebuff  Mr.  Benoir  walked  on.  Not  to 
St.  Mary's,  however.  A  sudden  bend  in  the  road  hid 
him  from  siglit,  as  he  turned  his  back  upon  that  pretty 
village,  and  bent  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Maple- 
wood. 

"  At  last !"  Mr.  Gaston  Benoir  was  thinking,  as  he 
walked  along,  "  at  last  my  time  has  come  1  I  have 
waited  for  it  many  a  year.  I  have  traveled  over  land 
and  sea  until  I  have  almost  given  up  in  despair,  when 
lo  !  I  come  to  this  one-horse  village,  in  a  lost  corner  of 
Maine,  and  iind  my  Lady  Ilighropes.  At  last  my 
time  has  come !  Old  Rohan  had  the  reins  in  his  hands 
long  enough  ;  but  it  is  my  turn  now.  What  a  pity 
he's  dead  I  I  owed  him  a  long  debt  of  hatred  ;  and 
pretty  Eulalie  must  pay  his  share  as  well  as  her  own. 
At  last !  at  last !  Gaston  Benoir,  your  lucky  star  is  in 
the  ascendant !  No  wonder  she  fainted  at  the  concert. 
She'll  come  through  more  than  that  before  I  have  done 
with  her.  Good-bye  to  the  Troubadours,  my  future's 
made  I" 


MR.     BENOIR'a    LETTER, 


205 


r  . 


* 


MR.    BENOIR's  letter. 


m 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


HE  great  iron  gates  of  Maplewood  stood  wide 
open  as  Mr.  Benoir  drow  near,  as  if  inviting 
him  to  enter.  He  paused  for  an  instant  to 
glance  at  the  prospect,  the  broad  sweep  of 
carriage-drive,  the  waving  trees,  the  gleams  of  bright 
pai'terres,  the  plash  of  distant  fountains,  and  the  stately 
old  house  just  showing  in  glimpses  in  the  distance. 
The  songs  of  countless  birds  made  the  air  melodious ; 
the  June  sunlight  lay  in  golden  sheets  on  the  velvet 
sward ;  the  liush  of  the  place  was  deep  and  unbroken 
in  its  noonday  summer  rest. 

"A  fine  old  place,"  Mr.  Benoir  thought ;  "  a  place 
a  man  might  be  proud  of !  And  Eulalie  Rohan  is 
mistress  of  all  this,  and  the  wife  of  an  honorable  gen- 
tleman. A  proud  man  this  Mr.  Sutlierland,  they  tell 
me,  and  come  of  a  proud  race.  All  the  better,  I'll 
lower  his  pride  for  him  one  of  these  days,  or  I'm  mis- 
taken. 

He  entered  the  wide  open  gates,  and  walked  up  the 


206 


MR.     DENOIR'S    LETTER. 


\ 


broad  graveled  drive.  For  nearly  ten  minutes  he  went 
on  v/ithout  meeting  any  one  ;  then  a  bend  in  the  drive 
brought  him  in  view  of  a  rose  garden,  where  a  gar- 
dener was  at  work.  The  man  looked  up  at  the  sound 
of  footsteps  and  stared  at  the  stranger. 

"  My  good  man,"  Mr.  Benoir  said,  condescendingly, 
"I  hope  I  don't  intrude.  I  am  a  stranger  here,  and, 
seeing  the  gate  open,  took  the  liberty  of  entering.  If 
I  trespass,  I  will  leave." 

The  gardener  touched  his  hat  to  the  handsome  and 
gentlemanly  stranger. 

"  No,  sir ;  it's  no  trespass.  Maplewood  is  free  to 
all  strangers,  by  Mr.  Sutherland's  orders.  You  can  go 
over  the  grounds  if  you  like." 

"Thanks,  my  friend,"  Mr.  Benoir  said,  politely. 
« I  think  I  will." 

He  turned  away,  following  the  drive  until  it  took 
him  to  tiie  lawn  in  front  of  the  house.  He  paused, 
looking  thoughtfully  up  at  its  long,  low^  old-fashioned 
front. 

"  A  fine  old  house — old  and  historic  for  this  new 
land.  I  wonder  which  is  her  room — I  wonder  if  she 
is  thinking  of  me  now.  Oh,  my  pretty  little  Eulalie  ! 
do  you  dream  how  near  I  am  to  you  this  minute  ?" 

He  walked  on ;  for  a  servant  girl,  coming  out,  was 
staring  with  open-eyed  admiration  at  the  dark  stranger. 
He  strolled  through  the  old  orchard,  through  the  woods 


■  1  I 


MH.     DUNOIR'S    LETTER. 


207 


and  fields ;  and,  coming  ronnd  the  end  of  the  house, 
found  himself  on  the  grassy  terrace  overlooking  the  sea. 
He  leaned  over  the  iron  railing,  and  looked  down  at 
the  placid  waves  murmuring  upon  the  shore. 

"  A  nice  place  to  commit  suicide,"  Mr.  Bcnoir  said 
to  himself.  "  One  leap  over  this  railing  into  that  calm, 
Bimlit,  treacherous  water,  and  all  one's  troubles  are 
ended.  My  pretty  Eiilalie  !  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I 
should  know  how  to  defy  Gaston  Bcnoir !" 

The  footpatli  through  the  woods  to  his  left  caught 
his  eye.  He  followed  it,  and  found  himself  presently 
in  the  half-ruined  old  summer-house  where  Philip 
Sutherland  had  long  ago  fought  with  his  despair.  -He 
sat  down  in  the  rustic  scat  by  the  rickety  table,  and 
looked  complacently  out  at  the  pleasant  view  of  the 
terrace  which  it  commanded.  He  sat  there,  and  no 
shadow  of  the  awful  tragedy  so  soon  to  take  place 
within  these  four  walls  came  darkly  over  his  mind  to 
warn  him.  He  sat  and  looked  out  at  the  terrace,  his 
mind  in  a  state  of  soliloquy  still. 

"  A  capital  place  for  a  rendezvous,"  thought  Mr. 
Benoir.  "  Silent  as  the  grave,  lonely  as  the  heart  of 
some  primeval  forest.  A  murder  might  be  done  hei-e 
and  no  one  be  the  wiser !  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Arthur 
Sutherland  ever  walks  in  that  terrace  ?  If  so,  I  could 
sit  here  safe  and  unseen  and  have  a  look  at  her.  I 
really  should  like  to  see  her.     That  pale-faced,  fair- 


II 


!('. 


IF 

i 

If 

'    IH 

203 


MR.     BENOIR'8    LETTER, 


i 


: 


haired  young  lady,  down  at  the  hotel,  this  morning, 
disbelieved  me,  I  think,  when  I  said  I  never  saw  Miss 
Rolian.     I  wonder  if  she  looks  like — " 

Mr.  Benoir  checked  his  own  thoughts  abruptly  to 
liglit  a  cigar.  "When  the  weed  was  in  good  going 
order,  lie  rose  up  and  sauntered  slowly  back  again 
toward  the  gates.  The  gardener  was  at  work  still,  and 
paused,  as  the  stranger  drew  near,  leaning  on  his  rake. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  asked,  "and  how  do  you  like 
Maplew«»od?" 

"  A  charming  place,"  said  Mr.  Benoir.  "  I  had  no 
idea  there  w^as  anything  like  it  in  St.  Mary's." 

"  There's  nothing  like  it  far  or  wide !"  said  the 
gardener.  "  And  there  isn't  as  old  a  family,  or  as  rich 
now,  as  the  Sutherlands,  in  the  State." 

"Indeed!  I  heard,"  Mr.  Benoir  said,  politely, 
"  that  Mrs.  Sutherland  was  ill.    She  is  better,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Getting  better,  sir.  She  is  able  to  be  up,  they 
tell  me.  We'll  have  her  out  here  to-morrow,  may  be. 
She's  uncommon  fond  of  walking  through  the  grounds 
when  she's  in  her  health." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  her  own  particular  walk,  too?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes !  The  terrace  down  there  by  the 
water.  That's  Mrs.  Sutherland's  daily  walk  up  and 
down  when  she's  well,  and  of  moonlight  nights  with 
her  husband.  It's  a  lonesome  sort  of  place,  but  she 
likes  it  best." 


Mli.    LENOIR'S    LETTER. 


200 


"  There  is  no  accounting  for  a  body's  tastes,"  said 
Mr.  Benoir.  "  By  tlio  way,  I  intend  making  some  stay 
in  St.  Mary's ;  and  if  I  should  choose  to  come  hero 
occasionally,  would  Mr.  Sutherland  have  any  objec- 
tion ?" 

*'  "Why  ! — no,  sir,  I  think  not,"  sai^  the  gardener, 
on  whom  the  stranger's  handsome  face,  pleasing  smile, 
and  insinuating  address  had  made  a  very  favorable 
impression ;  "  leastways,  he  never  does  object,  and  he 
ain't  likely  to  begin  with  you.  All  that's  wanted  of 
visitors  is  not  to  pick  the  flowei's,  and  they  may  come 
as  often  as  they  please." 

"  Mr.  Sutherland  is  very  kind,  and  I  am  much 
obliged  to  him  and  to  you.  Good  day,  my  friend. 
I'll  saunter  up  to-morrow  again,  I  think,  to  kill  time." 

Mr.  Benoir  was  absent  and  distrait  all  the  rest  of 
that  day.  Blue-eyed  Sophie,  fluttering  around  him 
like  a  buttei-fly  round  a  flower,  wondered  what  was  the 
matter,  and  pouted  her  rosy  lips  to  find  how  little 
notice  he  took  of  her.  He  avoided  his  brother-Trou- 
badours, and  loitered  by  himself  in  the  orchard,  smok- 
ing endless  cigars,  and  thinking  and  thinking. 

The  concert  that  night  was  very  successful.  Mr. 
Benoir's  singing  charmed  everybody  ;  but  none  of  the 
Siitherlands  were  present.  So  successful,  indeed,  was 
the  concert,  and  so  crowded  the  house,  that  the  Trouba- 
dours had  big  posters  put  up  next  day  to  inform  the 


Ir 


:     i- 


1 


210 


MR.     BENOtR'S    LETTER. 


's 


^1 

i 


good  people  of  St.  Mary's,  that,  as  a  particular  favor, 
they  would  remain  for  the  rest  of  the  week. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  Mr.  Benoir  started  for 
Maplewood,  one  pocket  iilled  with  cigars  (for  this 
mysterious  gentleman  was  an  inveterate  smoker)  and  a 
novel  borrowed  from  Soplr'e  in  the  other.  lie  made 
his  way  to  the  old  summer-house  without  meeting  any 
one,  and  sat  down  on  the  rustic  chair  beside  the  old 
table  to  smoke  and  read,  and  keep  watch.  But  all  his 
watching  was  useless.  One  of  the  gardeners  and  a 
maid-servant  appeared  on  the  terrace  for  a  few 
moments,  but  no  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Sutherland.  Mr.  Benoir's 
watch,  pointing  to  three,  reminded  him  that  two  was 
Mrs.  Weldon's  dinner-hour,  and  that  he  was  hungry ; 
so  he  rose  uj),  pocketed  his  novel,  and  started  for 
home. 

The  Troubadoui's  stayed  all  week,  according  to 
promise,  and  every  day  found  the  handsome  tenor  at 
his  post  in  the  summer-house.  Not  quite  unrewarded 
either,  this  patient  watching  ;  for  one  day  Mr.  Suther- 
land appeared  on  the  terrace — he  knew  it  was  Mr. 
Sutherland  from  the  description  he  received  of  him — 
loitered  up  and  down  for  half  an  hour,  as  if  to  aiford 
the  watcher  a  good  look,  and  then  retired. 

"  A  proud  man  '" — was  the  Troubadour's  criticism 
while  he  looked — "  A  proud  man,  who  would  prefer 
ten  thousand  deaths  to  dishonor.    You're  a  veiy  flue 


M 


Mlt.     DENOIirS    LETTER. 


211 


follow,  and  a  very  fiiK  gentlcrnai,  no  doubt,  Mr. 
Arthur  Sutherland,  but  I  liave  you  under  my  thumb 
for  all  that." 

Mr.  Bcnoir's  extraordinary  conduct  puzzled  his 
brother-Troubadours  bcyrmd  everything.  lie  had 
changed  so  suddenly  and  unaccountably  from  being 
"hail  fellow!  well  met,"  the  life  of  the  company,  to  a 
thoughtful,  silent,  and  steady  man.  His  prolonged 
absence,  too,  could  not  be  accounted  for.  They  had 
traced  him  morning  after  morning  toMaplewood  but, 
as  the  spies  said,  what  the  deuce  did  the  fellow  do 
there?  lie  couldnH  have  fallen  in  love  with  Miss 
Lucy  Sutherland  that  first  morning,  could  he  ?  Hardly, 
for  he  made  love  most  devotedly  to  pretty  Sophie.  It 
wasn't  to  see  the  place — once  or  twice  would  surely 
suflice  for  that.  The  Troubadours  were  puzzled,  and 
Sophie  Weldon  with  them. 

It  was  quite  true  Mr.  Benoir  made  love  to  her  be- 
tween whiles,  he  being  no  more  insensible  than  the  rest 
of  mankind  to  the  influence  of  azure  eyes,  golden-brown 
ringlets,  and  rose-bloom  cheeks.  He  could  hardly  be 
insensible  to  the  flattering  import  of  rosy  blushes  and 
eyelid-droopings  at  his  coming.  So  he  found  time  to  do 
a  little  courting,  even  while  he  kept  that  daily  watch 
at  Maple  wood.  But,  right  in  the  middle  of  Lis  love- 
making,  he  had  a  habit  of  breaking  abruptly  off  and 
falling   into   a  moody  silence,  and  being  a  thousand 


i 


' 


213 


MR.    DENOIR'S    LETTER, 


miles  away  from  Sophie  in  half  a  minnto.  Ilis  Imnd- 
Boiiie  dark  face  would  cloud  over  as  suddenly  aa  an 
Aj)ril  sky;  and  Sophie,  afraid  of  him  in  those  gloomy 
fits,  would  glance  shyly  and  wistfully  at  him  from 
under  her  eyelashes,  and  steal  away  and  leave  him 
ahme. 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  the  concert-going  folks 
of  St.  Mary's  began  to  grow  tired  of  the  Troubadours, 
and  the  houses  they  drew  were  wofuJly  thin.  So  they 
made  up  their  minds  to  pack  and  start  on  Monday 
morning,  and  were  all  ready  to  go,  when  Mr.  Benoir, 
their  very  best  singer,  electrified  them  by  announcing 
his  intention  of  remaining  where  he  was. 

"  I  entered  into  no  engagement  with  you,"  Mr. 
Benoir  coolly  said  to  the  head  of  the  Troubadours.  "  I 
merely  came  with  you  here  to  kill  time.  Now  that  I 
am  here,  I  like  the  place,  and  don't  choose  to  leave  it 
just  yet — that's  all." 

"  I  say,  Benoir,  is  it  Maplewood  or  our  Sophie  that's 
the  attraction?"  demanded  a  Troubadour;  to  which 
Mr.  Benoir's  reply  was  to  turn  his  back  upon  him  and 
walk  away. 

Sophie  was  in  ecstasies,  and  set  it  all  down  to  her 
own  account ;  but,  then,  why  was  Mr.  Benoir  so 
moody  ?  Surely  she  gave  him  encouragement  enough, 
yet  des])ite  all,  that  absorbed,  gloomy,  and  distrait 
manner  remained. 


Tsr 


MR.     BENOIWa    LETTER. 


21S 


Tho  daily  visits  to  Maplcwood  were  continued  :  the 
very  servants  there  he^^an  to  notice  him  now,  hut  still 
all  in  vain.  Mrs.  Sutherland  was  hotter,  report  said  ; 
but,  let  him  watch  as  he  would,  she  never  appeared  on 
the  terrace.  Did  some  secret  prescience  tell  her  ho 
was  there,  and  warn  her  to  keep  away?  Mr.  Benoir 
got  desperate  at  last. 

"  ril  dilly-dally  no  longer,"  he  said  to  himself,  set- 
ting his  white  teeth  savagely.  "  I'm  about  tired  of 
this  game  of  solitaire.  If  the  mountain  won't  come  to 
Mohammed,  Mohammed  must  go  to  the  mountain. 
I  can't  go  to  my  lady,  so  my  lady  must  come  to  me." 

That  evening,  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  chamber, 
Mr.  Benoir  wrote  a  note.  A  brief  and  abrupt  note, 
without  date,  or  address,  and  almost  without  signa- 
tui'e. 


;  n 


r 


"  You  know  that  I  am  here ;  and  that  I  will  not 
leave  until  I  see  you.  The  time  of  meeting  I  leave 
with  you — the  place  I  take  the  privilege  of  naming 
myself.  The  old  summer-house  at  Maplewood,  facing 
the  terrace,  is  the  best  place  in  the  world  for  a  clandes- 
tine meeting.  G.  B." 

Mr.  Benoir  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  the 
address  on  the  envelope — "Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland, 
Maplewood,  St.  Mary's."  He  had  written  the  iiote  in 
a  bold,  dashing  fist,  but  the  address  was  in  a  pale,  wo- 


214 


MR     BENOIWa    LETTER. 


he 


I 


manisli  scrawl,  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a  scliool- 
girl. 

"  If  they  see  it,"  said  the  scribe  to  himself ;  "  they'll 
think  it's  from  a  lady,  and  won't  suspect.  I  rather 
think,  Mrs,  Sutherland,  these  few  lines  will  bring  you 
to  it !" 

Mr.  Benoir  dropped  this  letter  into  the  post-office, 
and  waited  patiently  for  three  days  for  an  answer. 
.During  those  three  days  he  forsook  Maplewood,  and 
played  the  devoted  to  Sophie  Weldon.  On  the  third 
morning  he  presented  himself  at  the  post-office,  and 
inquired  if  there  was  a  letter  for  Gaston  Benoir.  The 
postmaster  fumbled  through  a  pile  in  the  "  B  "  depart- 
ment, and  at  last  singled  out  one  for  the  name.  Mr. 
Benoir  glanced  at  the  superscription.  It  was  post- 
marked St.  Mary's,  and  the  address  was  in  a  delicate 
and  rather  peculiar  female  hand.  His  fingers  closed 
tightly  over  it,  while  a  smile  so  evil,  so  triumphant,  so 
sinister,  came  over  his  handsome  face,  that  it  altered  so 
you  would  hardly  have  known  it.  lie  had  not  patience 
to  wait  to  roach  the  hotel.  He  tore  off  the  envelope 
the  moment  he  was  outside  the  door,  and  went  along 
the  quiet  village  road,  reading.  The  note  was  as  short 
and  abrupt  as  his  own. 

"I  will  meet  you  to-morrow  night  at  nine,  in 
the  place  you  have  named.  Destroy  this  as  soon  aa 
read." 


MR.     BENOIRa    LETTER. 


2  IS 


That  was  all.  Not  even  an  initial  at  the  end;  bat 
then,  it  was  hardly  necdod.  As  Mr.  Benoir  lookod  up 
from  the  paper,  at  the  sound  of  an  advancing  footstep, 
he  found  a  lady  passing  by,  staring  at  him  as  if  he  were 
the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world.  It  is  a  lady's  privi- 
lege to  stare ;  so  Mr.  Benoir  lifted  his  hat  politely,  and 
walked  on.  The  lady  was  Miss  Lucy  Sutherland  ;  and, 
an  instant  after,  she  stooped  hastily  to  pick  up  some- 
thing white,  lying  in  her  path — the  toni  envelope  of  a 
letter,  over  which  her  hand  closed  as  if  she  had  found 
a  diamond.  Not  until  she  was  some  yards  away — not 
until  she  made  sure  there  was  no  living  creature  to 
watch  her,  did  she  unclasp  the  envelope  and  look  at  it. 
No  earthly  emotion  could  redden  the  pallid  face  of 
Lucy  Sutherland,  but  it  almost  flushed  now,  and  her 
eyes  kindled  with  a  steely,  fiery  gleam. 

"  So  she  writes  to  him,"  she  thought ;  "  the  wi^e  of 
Arthur  Sutherland  writing  to  this  handsome  strolling 
vagabond.  That  was  her  letter  he  was  reading  as  I 
passed  him.  It  is  coming — it  is  coming — the  day  of 
her  downfall ;  and  meanwhile  I  will  keep  this  piece  of 
paper — it  may  be  of  service  before  long  1" 


i!* 


I 


111 


.1 


did 


MR.    BENOma    SHADOW. 


\\ 


I 


CHAPTER  Xiy. 

MR.    BENOIR'3  shadow. 

ULALIE  SUTHERLAND  sat  in  that  favor- 
ite  scat  of  lisrs,  the  deep,  curtained  recess 
of  the  drawing-room  window,  watching  the 
summer  night  fall.  It  had  been  a  dull  day — 
a  day  of  hopeless  chill  and  drizzle,  with  a  low,  com- 
plaining wind,  that  had  moaned  and  sighed  drearily 
through  the  trees,  and  a  sky  of  lead  closing  down  over 
all :  a  wretched  day,  that  unstrung  your  nerves,  and 
made  you  cross  and  miserable,  and  the  highest-spirited 
agree  with  Marianna,  that  "  life  was  dreary." 

The  night  closed  in  early  this  gray  July  day,  and  a 
servant  came  in  to  light  the  gas.  Mrs.  Sutherland 
turned  round — she  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room — and 
forbade  her. 

"  I  don't  want  lights  yet,  Martha.  Where  is  Miss 
Lucy  r 

"  In  the  drawing-room,  ma'am,  helping  Susan  to 
sort  the  silver." 

"Very  well;   that  will  do.     Mr.   Sutherland  has 


Mli.     BENOma    SHADOW. 


217 


gone  out  to  spend  the  evening,  so  there  is  no  need  of 
lighting  the  gas,  just  yet.     That  will  do." 

The  s'lrvant  left  the  room,  wondering,  perhaps,  at 
her  mistress's  strange  fancy  for  sitting  in  the  dark,  and 
Eulalie  aank  back  in  her  seat.     There  wa^  just  light 
enough  coming  palely  through  the  large   window  to 
show  the  change  which  a  few  days*  illness  had  wrought 
in  the  Creole's  dark  face.     So  thin,  so  has^Gcard,  so  worn 
it  looked,  you  might  have  thought  she  had  been  sick 
for  months ;  and   the  black,   starry   eyes  looked   un- 
naturally large  and  bright.     Some  inward  excitement 
or  other  sent   a   feverish   fire   burning  in  their  dark 
depths  this  evening,  and  on  the  haggard  cheecks  glowed 
two   deep,  crimson   spots,  quite   foreign   to  her  usual 
complexion.      Her  very  stillness,   as   she  sat   staring 
straight  before  her  at  the  darkening  day,  was  full  of  the 
same  suppressed  excitement.     Her  long  black  hair  fell 
loose   and  uncared-for  over  the  scarlet  shawl  folded 
around  her,  a  silky  mass  of  ripples  and  ringlets. 

The  house  was  very  still.  A  golden  canary-bird 
fluttering  faintly  in  its  gilt  cage  above  her  head  ;  the 
tick,  tick,  of  a  little  French,  clock  on  the  carved  chim- 
ney-piece; the  wailing  of  the  evening  wind,  and  tho 
dull  tramp  of  the  waves  on  the  shore — all  were  sharply 
audible  in  the  deep  hush.  She  was  quite  alone;  Mr. 
Sutherland  had  gone  to  a  dinner-party,  reluctant,  but 
with  no  excuse  for  absenting ;  Lucy  was  busy  in  the 
10 


M 


w 


m 


11 


ill 


m 


5f 


i 


p; 

i-' 

hi 

,^ 

p 

•ft 

i  ^- 

' 

i 

i 

1  .     1';; 

1 

218 


ifff.     BEN0IIC8    SnADOW. 


;;l: 


1 


i 


hi     Ui: 


household  department,  and  the  Swiss  honne  and  the 
baby  were  up  in  the  nursery.  So  Mrs.  Sutherland  sat 
alone  in  the  rainy  twilight,  looking  steadfastly  out  at 
the  creeping  blackness,  and  never  seeing  it.  Her  hands 
lay  folded  in  her  lap,  except  when  she  pulled  out  her 
watch  to  look  at  the  hour ;  but  her  burning  impatience, 
her  intense,  suppressed  excitement,  showed  itself  in 
every  line  of  her  altered  face. 

As  the  dark  day  shut  down  in  darker  night,  Lucy, 
her  housekeeper's  task  ended,  came  into  the  drawing- 
room.  A  faint  liorht  from  the  hall  illuminated  the  lont? 
room,  and  showed  her  quick  eyes  the  scarlet  drapery, 
and  the  tancrled  waves  of  dead-black  hair. 

"  You  hero,  Mrs.  Sutherland  ?"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
of  quiet  surprise ;  "  and  sitting  in  the  dark  !" 

Eulalie  turned  round,  but  in  such  a  w^ay  that 
the  deep  shadow  of  the  amber  curtains  concealed  her 
face. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  in  her  usual  voice. 
"  I  preferred  the  twilight.  King  for  Martha  if  you 
wish." 

"  I  wish !  Oh,  no !  If  there  is  nothing  you  want 
me  to  do,  I  will  take  my  work  up  to  my  room  and 
finish  it." 

It  was  one  of  Miss  Sutherland's  unsocial  customs 
to  take  her  work  up  to  her  chamber  of  an  evening, 
instead  of  sitting  with  her  cousin  and  his  wife.      She 


« 


MR     BEN0IR8     SHADOW. 


219 


■"1 
in 


gathered  up  her  spools  and  cambric  now,  and  left  the 
drawing-room,  as  was  her  wont.  Oa  the  threshold  she 
paused  to  ask  a  question. 

"  Do  you  intend  sitting  up  for  Mr.  Sutherland  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.    AVhy  ?" 

"  Because  it  will  be  unwise.  He  will  probably  not 
return  until  late,  and  you  are  not  strong  enough  yet  to 
lose  your  night's  rest.     Good-night !" 

"  Hest  ?"  Eulalie  repeated,  inwardly,  looking  out  at 
the  darkness  with  a  sort  of  despair.  "  Shall  I  ever 
find  rest  again  in  this  world  ?  Shall  I  ever  rest  now, 
until  they  lay  me  in  that  last  home,  where  all  find  rest 
alike  ?" 

Tick,  tick  !  The  golden  hands  of  the  little  French 
clock  told  off  the  minutes  of  aLother  hour,  and  struck 
up  a  waltz,  preparatory  to  striking  eight.  A  watery 
moon,  struggling  feebly  through  banks  of  rugged 
clouds,  gleamed  athwart  the  blackness  of  tlie  night,  and 
hurriedly  hid  itself  again  in  billows  of  black.  The 
hush  of  the  house  was  profound.  Eulalie  sat  in  the 
stillness  and  darkness,  like  a  figure  of  stone.  Kain- 
drops,  pattering  softly  against  the  glass,  told  the  storm 
was  increasing,  and  the  wailing  wind  was  rising  high 
among  the  rocking  trees.  The  French  clock  set  up  a 
lively  waltz  again — the  hands  pointed  to  five  minutes  to 
nine.  At  the  sound,  Eulalie  started  up,  wrapping  the 
large  crimson  shawl  over  her  head,  and  around  her  fig- 


# 

i 

H 

I 

I 


Mntn!TTriii,,i^.^^i,y  .„......, 


•/ 


220 


Mil.     BENOmS    SHADOW. 


i  ; 


ure,  crossed  the  drawing-room  swiftly,  opened  noise- 
lessly the  long  window,  and  stepped  out  into  the  rainy 
grass.  Then  a  sudden  panic  of  irresolution  seized  her. 
The  niglit  was  raw  and  dark,  the  wind  cried  out  like  a 
human  voice  in  agony,  the  trees  rose  up  around  her  on 
every  hand,  tall  grim  goblins.  The  roar  of  the  surf  on 
the  beach  struck  a  chill  of  cold  nameless  terror  to  her 
heart.  The  awful  mj^stery  of  night  and  solitude  chilled 
the  blood  in  her  veins.  She  stopped,  afraid  to  go  on, 
and  looked  back.  Some  one  was  entering  the  drawing- 
room  from  the  hall,  and  the  dread  of  being  seen  there, 
counteracted  that  other  d.-ead.  She  went  on  through 
the  wet  grass,  and  stnick  into  the  path  leading  to  the 
terrace.  The  memory  of  the  night  when  she  had 
w^alked  that  path  with  her  dead  grandfather,  and  heard 
the  first  warning  of  her  mysterious  danger,  came  back 
to  her,  with  a  pang  like  death. 

"  Poor,  j)oor  grandpapa,"  she  thought,  "  the  danger 
you  dreaded  so  much  has  come  at  last.  Thank  God 
you  have  not  lived  to  see  this  night !" 

On  the  terrace  she  lingered  for  a  moment,  out 
of  breath.  She  leaned  against  the  iron  railing,  and 
looked  down  at  the  black  gulf  of  water,  roaring  at 
her  feet. 

"  If  the  worst  come,"  she  thought,  "  and  it  were 
not  a  crime,  how  easily  one  could  escape,  after  all." 

She  dre\^-  back,  shuddering  at  her  own  temptation, 


ai 

til 


MR.     DENOIR'S     SHADOW. 


221 


and  turned  toward  the  tangled  path  leading  through 
the  wood  to  the  ruined  summer-house. 

"  Xo,  no,  no !"  she  said,  inwardly ;  "  never  that  1 
If  what  I  fear  does  come,  tliere  will  be  no  need  of 
suicide.  My  days  in  this  world  will  be  few  indeed. 
May  Heaven  strengthen  me  to  meet  the  worst !" 

She  had  to  feel  her  way  among  the  trees  along  the 
dark  pathway.  A  faintly  glimmering  light  from  the 
broken  window  of  the  summer-house  told  her  the  man 
she  had  come  to  meet  was  there  before  her.  Iler  heart 
])eat  so  fast  that  she  turned  faint  and  sick.  For  a 
moment  only — the  next  she  was  rapping  at  the  closed 
door.  It  opened  instantly,  and  Eulalie  Sutherland  and 
Gaston  Bcnoir  stood  face  to  face. 

There  was  a  moment's  blank  pause.  A  dark  lan- 
tern, brought  thoughtfully  by  the  ex-Troubadour, 
stood  lighted  on  the  old  table ;  and  by  its  uncertain 
glimmer  the  two  stood  looking  intently  at  each 
other.  Beside  the  lantern  stood  a  black  bottle, 
and  a  strong  odor  of  whisky  and  cigar-smoke  showed 
ho-v  the  gentleman  had  beguiled  the  tedious  time  of 
waiting. 

They  stood  and  looked  at  each  other.  Miss  Sophio 
"Wcldon  had  once  remarked  that  Mrs.  SutherhiTid  and 
Mr.  Benoir  resembled  each  other,  and  Miss  Weklon 
was  right.  There  was  a  resemblance — something  in 
the  outline  of  the  face,  in  the  peculiar  beauty  of  the 


i' 


I 


I 


m 


223 


MR.     BENOma     SHADOW. 


II' ] 


mouth  and  chin,  and  in  the  full  oriental  eye,  not  suffi- 
ciently marked  to  strike  a  casual  observer ;  but  there. 
In  that  interval  of  silence,  during  which  the  rain  beat 
against  the  broken  windows,  and  the  wind  howled  dis- 
mally through  the  wood,  the  place  looked  strange  and 
eerie  enough,  shadows  lurking  fitfully  in  every  corner, 
and  the  man  and  woman  mutely  confronting  each 
other.  Only  for  an  instant — all  Mr.  Benoir's  suave 
politeness  returned  then ;  and,  with  a  low  bow  and  an 
easy,  oU-hand  manner,  he  drew  forward  the  only  chair 
the  summer-house  contained. 

"  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Sutherland,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  easy  familiarity ;  "  pray  take  this  seat,  and  ac- 
cept my  thanks  for  the  favor  of  this  interview  and 
your  punctuality.  You  see,"  pointing  to  the  black 
bottle,  and  seating  himself  on  the  table,  "  I  brought 
a  friend  with  me  to  shorten  the  time  of  waiting. 
Pray  sit  down  ;  you  will  fatigue  yourself  standing." 

Eulalie  sank  into  the  chair,  her  dilated  eyes,  un- 
naturally large  and  bright,  fixed  on  his  face  with  but 
one  expression — that  of  intensest  fear.  She  would  have 
stood,  but  she  trembled  so  it  was  impossible. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  easy  Mr.  Benoir,  wit)  a  satis- 
fied nod  ;  "  now  we  can  talk  comfortably.  "Were  you 
surprised  to  receive  my  letter  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Ah !  I  thought  not  I    You  recognized  me  at  the 


C( 

11 


m 


MR.     BENOIR'S    SHADOW. 


223 


re. 

bt 
lis- 
fid 


concert  that  night — that  is  to  say,  you  recognized  my 
name  on  the  bills,  and  fainted.  Well,  I  don't  wonder ; 
it  must  have  been  a  shock.  Do  you  know.  Mi's.  Suth- 
erland, you  gave  me  a  shock,  too,  when  you  entered 
here  five  minutes  ago  ?" 

She  did  not  speak.  Some  subtle  fascination,  be- 
yond her  power  to  control,  kept  her  eyes  riveted  im- 
movably to  his  face. 

*'  My  dear  Eulalie — pardon  the  familiarity,  but  you 
and  I  don't  need  to  stand  on  ceremony — you  bear  the 
most  startling  resemblance  to  your  mother — you  don't 
remember  her,  do  you  ? — and  for  one  second,  when  you 
entered,  I  fancied  the  dead  had  arisen.  Your  grand- 
father— he  was  a  sly  old  fox,  too — must  have  known, 
if  ever  I  saw  you,  I  should  recognize  you  by  the  re- 
semblance." 

Still  she  sat  silent;  still  her  widening  eyes 
never  left  his  face.  Mr.  Benoir,  no  way  disconcerted, 
talked  on. 

"  You  don't  speak,  Mrs.  Sutherland,  and  you  look 
frightened,  I  think.  Don't  be  alarmed ;  there  is  not 
the  slightest  occasion,  I  assure  you.  I  am  the  most 
conscientious  of  mankind  where  ladies  are  concerned, 
particularly  to  my  own — " 

He  stopped.  Eulalie  had  held  out  both  hands  with 
a  sort  of  gasping  cry. 


- 1^1 

■  m 


U 


r 


,  1 1'  I 


II 


jifi 


Ml 

I*' 


224 


MR.     BENOin'8    SHADOW. 


I 


"  Don't !"  she  said,  "  don't !  don't !  don't  I  If  you 
have  any  mercy,  spare  me !" 

"  My  dear  clilld,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  "  if  you  cry  out 
like  that,  some  one  may  hear  you.  Compose  yourself  ; 
I  would  not  distress  you  for  the  world,  especially  in 
our  first  interview.  By-the-bye,  won't  tliey  miss 
you  in  there  ?"  nodding  toward  the  house. 

"  No." 

"  Does  that  pale-faced,  fair-haired  young  woman, 
Miss  Sutherland,  know  you  are  out  ?" 

"  I  think  not." 

"  That's  ri«;ht ;  keep  her  in  the  dark  ;  she's  as  keen 
as  a  razor,  that  demure  damsel.  And  now  let's  come 
to  business  ;  for  it's  confoundedly  raw  in  here,  and  I 
have  a  long  walk  before  me  in  the  wind  and  rain.  How 
long  have  you  known  your  own  story  ?" 

"  Not  three  years." 

"  Ah !  that  cunning  old  fox  kept  it  as  long  as  he 
could.     You  knew  it  before  you  were  married  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  shivering  and  drawing  her 
shawl  closer  around  her. 

^  Mr.  Sutherland  doesn't  know,  of  course  ?" 

"  No." 

"No  one  in  all  this  big  world  knows  it  but  you 
and  I  ?" 

"  No  one." 

Mr.   Benoir's  black  eyes  flashed  with  triumphant 


Mil.     BKNOliriS    SHADOW. 


2*25 


)U 


^  > 


malice  ;  Mr.  Benuir'ti  luiiulsome  face  wore  the  look  of  a 
demon. 

"  Then,  my  pretty  little  Eulalie,  you  are  utterly 
and  entirely  and  irrevocably  in  my  power !  Mine,  al- 
most body  and  soul !" 

She  rose  up,  came  a  step  forward,  and  fell  down 
on  her  knees  before  him,  holding  up  her  clasped  hands. 

"  Spare  me !"  she  cried  ;  "  for  God's  sake  have 
mercy  on  me  1  1  am  in  your  power  beyond  earthly 
hope  ;  l)ut  be  merciful,  as  you  expect  mercy.  For  my 
huslKUid's  sake,  for  my  child's  sake,  for  my  dead 
mother's  sake,  have  mercy  1" 

His  face  darkened  and  grew  stern  as  he  looked  down 
on  her  from  under  his  bent  black  brows. 

"  Get  up,  Mrs.  Sutherland,"  he  said,  "you  look  at 
me  with  your  mother's  face,  and  speak  to  me  with  your 
mother's  voice,  but  it  only  hardens  me  the  more. 
What  did  your  mother  care  for  me  ?  What  right  have 
I  to  cherish  her  memory  ?  I  have  a  long  debt  of  ven- 
geance to  pay  off.  I  owe  that  dead  grandfather  of 
yours  a  long  score,  and  I  am  afraid  you  must  settle  it. 
Got  up,  Eulalie  Sutherland.  I  threaten  nothing,  I 
promise  nothing.  I  only  say  this  :  I  am  not  a  man  to 
forget  or  forgive.  Get  up,  I  say,  and  listen  to  me." 
He  held  out  his  hand  to  assist  her,  but  she  shraidv  froni 
his  touch,  and  arose,  precipitately. 

Mr.  Benoir  burst  into  a  laugh. 
10* 


?ti! 


■i 


Ji 


220 


Mil     niCNOfirS    SUA  DOW. 


"  You  (lonH  like  to  tou{;li  mc,  my  pretty  Eulallo; 
tliere  is  pollution  in  it,  isn't  there  i  Is  it  the  hhi'jk 
blood  in  my  veins  you  are  afraid  of,  or  what?  Don't 
be  too  faritidious,  my  dainty  little  rosebud,  you  may  find 
it  in  your  way  hereafter.  I  say,  have  you  got  any 
money  ?" 


i( 


No." 


"  You  little  simpleton !  Let  me  see  that  ring  on 
your  left  hand.  A  diamond,  by  Jove  I  Diamonds  aro 
very  pretty — ^ive  it  to  me  I" 

Eulalie  yhrank  back. 
•  "  I  cannot,"  she  said,  "  it  is  my  husband's  gift." 

"  Let  him  give  you  another,  then  ;  tell  him  you  lost 
it.     Give  it  me." 

"  No,  no,"  she  pleaded  faintly,  "  not  that  \  li  you 
\jjant  money,  you  shall  have  it,  as  much  as  you  desire, 
but  not  this  I" 

"I  will  have  this  and  the  money,  too.  Give  me 
that  ring." 

She  dared  not  refuse.  She  dropped  the  ring  into 
his  extended  hand,  trembling  before  hmi.  Mr.  Benoir 
held  it  to  the  light,  the  splendid  jewel  flashing  forth 
rainbow-fire,  and  put  it  com])lacentl}  on  his  little  finger. 

"  Thanks,  my  pretty  Eiiialie  It  is  a  tight  fit,  but 
I  can  wear  it,  1  think.  It  will  t^erve  to  remind  me  of 
you,  njy  dear,  until  we  meet  again.  When  am  X  to 
have  that  happiness  ?" 


Mil     BENOIR'S    SHADOW. 


237 


I 


"  Wliy  do  you  ask  mc'^'  said  Euljilio,  hor  voico 
trembling  pitiably  ;  "you  know  it  must  be  wlicnevor 
you  wish." 

"  Very  true — but  I  like  to  bo  as  accommodating  as 
possible.  I  don't  know  at  present  when  I  shall  take  a 
fancy  to  have  another  chat  in  this  airy  little  rendezvous 
— when  I  do,  I  shall  drop  you  a  line.  How  much 
money  can  you  conveniently  spare  me  to-morrow  ?" 

"  How  much  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Let  mo  see,"  Mr.  Bonoir  said,  reflectively.  "  I  like 
to  begin  moderately.  Suppose  we  say  a  thousand  dollars." 

"  I  cannot  get  you  so  much  to-morrow,"  replied 
Eulalie;  "you  will  have  to  wait  a  day  or  two.  Is  there 
nothing  else — I  must  be  going  ?" 

"  Are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  leave  me  ?  Well,  I'm 
in  a  hurry  myself ;  so  it's  no  matter.  No,  there's  noth- 
ing more  at  present — I'll  see  you  again  before  long,  and 
again  and  again.  I  don't  mean  to  drop  your  charming 
acquaintance,  my  pretty  Eulalie,  now  that  I've  made  it. 
Fellows,  like  me,  knocking  about  this  big  world  and 
getting  more  kicks  than  halfpence,  don't  often  get  into 
such  society  as  Fm  movin,*^  in  at  present.  Talking  of 
knocking  about,  do  you  know,  Mrs.  Sutherland,  I  have 
searched  every  inch  of  this  habitiiblo  globe  for  you,  and 
was  about  gi^^ing  up  the  hunt  when  I  came  here  and 
met  you.  You'll  send  che  money  in  a  day  or  two  with« 
out  fail  ?" 


^ 


Ml 


a  1)1 


I 


i 


I* 


223 


MR.     BENOIWS    SHADOW. 


m 


"  I  will  send  you  ^lie  money,"  Eulalie  said 
"  Heaven  knows  how  gladly  I  would  buy  your  silence 
with  every  farthing  I  possess.  But  before  you  go — 
you  have  not  promised  to  keep  my  secret." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  getting  off  the  table  ;  "  and 
what's  more,  I  don't  mean  to  promise.  No,  my  pretty 
little  Eulalie,  you  are  the  image  of  your  mother,  and  I 
don't  forget  her  or  my  own  wrongs,  or  the  debt  I  owe 
old  Rohan,  and  old  Rohan's  son,  and  I  won't  promise. 
They're  both  dead,  so  they  can't  pay  the  debt ;  but 
you,  whom  they  both  loved,  are  alive,  a^d  must.  I 
hate  to  be  ungallant  to  a  lady,  particularly  a  young  and 
pretty  uie;  but,  my  little  beauty,  I  really  am  afraid 
you  must." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  with  a  low, 
despairing  cry.  Mr.  Benoir  pocketed  the  black  bottle, 
took  uj)  his  dark-lantern,  pulled  up  the  collar  of  his 
overcoat,  pulled  down  his  felt  hat  over  his  eyes,  and 
tu^rned  toward  the  door.  Eulalie  dropped  her  hands 
from  before  her  face — her  face,  blanched  to  the  color 
of  death,  and  held  them  out  to  him  in  a  last  appeal. 

"  Can  nothing  buy  your  silence  ?  Can  nothing  of 
all  I  possess  tempt  you  to  be  secret  V 

"  Nothing,  my  pretty  Eulalie." 

"  Have  you  no  pity  for  me — a  w^ak,  helpless  girl, 
who  has  never  w^ronged  you  ?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Sutherland,"  Mr.  Benoir  said,  with 


::i 


!*''    • 


MR.     BEN0IW8    SHADOW. 


229 


a  sardonic  smile  ;  "  you  are  a  Christian,  t.  most  devoted 
daughter  of  the  Old  Church,  they  tell  me,  and  you 
know  where  it  is  written  '  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall 
be  visited  on  the  children,  even  unto  the  third  and 
fourth  generations. '  Satan  quoting  Scripture,  eh  ? 
Good  night,  my  pretty  little  Eulalie ;  don't  stand  too 
long  here,  or  you  may  catch  cold.  I  shall  expect  to 
hear  from  you  in  the  course  of  the  week — until  then 
adieu,  and  au  revoir  /" 

He  raised  his  hat  with  ceremonious  politeness,  but 
with  that  derisive  smile  still  on  his  handsome,  sinister 
face,  and  went  out.  The  path  through  the  wood  was 
in  inky  blackness — the  slanting  rain  drove  in  his  face, 
and  the  blast  waved  and  surged,  like  the  voice  of  an 
aui^ry  giant,  through  the  trees.  The  dark  lantern  he 
carried  served  to  show  hii'"  the  wav  tlirouf]jh  the 
gloomy  woodhmd  aisle. 

"  A  bad  night,"  thought  Mr.  Benoir,  looking  up  at 
the  black  sky  ;  "  and  a  dismal  walk  from  here  to  St. 
Mary's.  But  if  it  were  raining  cats,  dogs,  and  pitch- 
forks, I  should  go  through  it  all  for  the  sake  of  the 
interview  that  is  just  past.  Poor  little  Eulalie !  what 
an  unlucky  little  beauty  it  is,  after  all !  If  tlie  debt  I 
owe  the  Rohaus  were  a  trifle  less  heavy  tlian  it  i.s,  1 
should  be  tempted  to  take  her  fortune,  every  stiver  of 
it,  and  then  let  her  go.  As  it  is,  that  is  out  of  tlie 
question.     Gold  is  sweet,  but  revenge  is  sweeter.     Mo, 


!: 


l\ 


% 

i 


■n 


230 


MR.    BEN0IW8    SHADOW. 


my  poor  little,  pretty  little  Eulalie,  there  is  no  help  for 
you.     Oh,  confound  it  I     I  shall  break  my  neck !" 

Stumbling  along  in  the  darkness,  under  the  drip- 
ping trees,  with  the  wind  and  rain  in  his  face,  Mr. 
Benoir  had  enough  to  do  to  preserve  the  even  tenor  of 
his  way,  without  looking  behind  him.  A  dark, 
shadowy  figure,  flitting  noiselessly  along  after  him,  was 
therefore  unseen — a  figure  that  stopped  when  he 
stopped,  that  hurried  on  when  he  hurried  on,  and  that 
never  lost  sight  of  him.  A  figure  that  had  followed 
him  from  St.  Mary's  earlier  in  the  evening,  that  had 
watched  him  through  the  grounds  of  Maplewood  at  a 
safe  distance ;  and  that,  crouching  under  the  trees 
behind  the  summer-house,  had  waited  until  the  inter- 
view within  was  over.  A  figure  that  kept  steadily 
behind  him,  like  his  own  shadow — a  woman's  figure, 
slender  and  tall,  wearing  a  long  black  mantle,  w4th  the 
hood  down  over  hor  head.  That  shrouding  hood  would 
have  hid  her  face,  even  if  there  had  been  light  enough 
to  show  it — but  she  was  only  a  blacker  shadow  among 
shadows,  moving  swiftly  and  noiselessly,  as  a  shadow 
should.  Mr.  Benoir,  absorbed  in  his  own  dark,  venge- 
ful thoughts,  never  once  looked  back,  never  once 
dreamed  that  the  destroying  angel  was  stealthily  and 
surely  on  his  own  track  I 


' 


HKBECGA     THE    nOU>'SEMAlD. 


2ai 


'III 


CHAPTER  XT. 


REBECCA,   THE  HOUSEMAID. 


TSS  LUCY  SUTHERLAND,  in  her  capacity 
of  housekeeper  at  Maplewood,  was  not 
very  much  liked.  The  servants  had  a  way 
of  stigmatizing  her  as  "  that  sneaking  cat," 
from  a  fashion  she  had  of  stealing  upon  them  unob- 
served and  noiseless,  ind  at  the  most  unexpected  time. 
If  Elizabeth  the  cook,  or  Fanny  the  waitress,  smuggled 
their  young  men  in  for  lunch  in  the  kitchen,  or  a 
stolen  tete-a-tete  in  the  servants'  hall.  Miss  Lucy  glided 
down  upon  them,  shod  witli  the  shoes  of  silence,  pale 
and  vengeful.  Elizabeth  the  cook  threw  up  her  situa- 
tion after  a  week  or  two,  in  disgust. 

"  I  ain't  no  fault  to  find  with  you  or  master, 
ma'am,"  Elizabeth  said,  in  explanation,  to  Euklie ; 
*'  you're  a^  good  as  gold,  both  ;  and  keep  your  places 
as  ladies  and  gentlemen  slionJd,  and  does  not  go  a 
pryin'  and  a  sneakin'  into  the  kitchen^  where  you  ain't 
no  business,  at  all  times  and  sensons,  hindering  of  folks 
from  doing  their  work,  and  hunting  round  like  an  old 


i  • 


V 


:l 


i! 


I 


9'{0. 


llEBFdCA     THE    UOUSEMAID. 


cat  after  a  mouse,  for  followers.  I  can't  staiiG  it, 
ma'am,  and  I  won't ;  so  I  give  notice  and  leaves  when 
my  month's  up." 

Elizabeth  left  accordingly ;  and  so  did  Fanny  the 
waitress,  and  Sarah  the  housemaid.  Another  cook  and 
waitress  were  procured,  after  some  trouble ;  for  Miss 
Lucy  was  hard  to  please  in  the  matter  of  qualifications 
and  reference,  and  applicants  were  few  and  far 
between.  The  housemaid  seemed  to  be  a  still  more 
difficult  matter  ;  half-a-dozen  had  applied,  been  weighed, 
and  found  wanting,  and  the  office  was  still  open. 

Miss  Sutherland  sat  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  in 
an  arm-chair  before  a  table,  poring  over  accounts.  A 
pretty  room,  and  sacred  to  Miss  Lucy ;  a  bright-tinted 
carpet  on  the  floor,  pretty  j)ictures  on  the  papered 
walls,  lounges  and  easy  chairs  scattered  about.  The 
table  was  strewn  with  bills,  receipts,  and  passbooks ; 
and  Miss  Sutherland,  pen  in  hand,  Avas  busy  balancing 
her  ledij^er.  The  mornino:  sunlic^ht  streamed  in  an 
amber  flood  through  the  open  window,  and  the  songs 
of  countless  birds  and  the  scent  of  lilac  and  rose-tree 
came  in  on  the  morning  breeze.  No  trace  of  last 
night's  storm  remained  ;  the  sky  was  as  blue  as  Miss 
Lucy's  blue  e3'es,  and  a  great  deal  brigliter.  Suddenly, 
a  shadow  came  between  her  and  the  sunlight ;  and, 
looking  up,  she  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutherland,  arm  in 
arm,   loitering    past,    on    their   way   to    the    terrace. 


REBECCA     THE    HOUSEMAID. 


288 


Arthur  looked  Imndsome  and  bappy  ;  he  was  laugh- 
ingl}''  relating  some  incident  of  the  previous  ev^ening's 
entertainment,  and  Eulalie  looked,  as  she  always  did, 
beautiful.  Iler  long  black  ringlets,  falling  behind  her 
taper  waist,  were  just  shown  off  by  the  white  muslin 
skirt,  and  the  rosy  ribbons  that  trimmed  it  lent  a  glow 
to  the  creamy  pallor  of  the  Creole  face.  Young  and 
handsome,  rich  and  happy,  loving  and  l)eloved — surely 
they  were  an  enviable  pair.  Lucy  Sutherland's  wrongs 
— the  love  she  had  given  unsought,  the  miserable,  sin- 
ful, hidden  passion  that  gnawed  at  her  heart  still,  and 
made  her  life  a  torment,  rose  up  in  wrathful  rebellion 
as  she  looked. 

"  How  long  the  time  is  coming  !"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  "  how  long,  how  long !  Of  what  use  to  me  are 
my  suspicions,  or  the  tangible  evidence  of  her  own 
handwriting,  addressed  to  this  strange  man,  without 
further  proof.  Where  was  she  last  night,  out  in  the 
storm  ?  She  looked  like  a  living  corpse,  when  I  met 
her,  stealing  in,  dripping  wet,  and  started  back  from 
me  as  if  I  had  been  a  ghost.  How  he  bends  over  her, 
looking  down  in  her  sallow,  baby  face,  and  big,  mean- 
ingless black  eyes,  as  if  there  was  no  one  in  he  world 
but  herself  !  Arthur  Sutherland,  you  are  a  fool  where 
that  pale-faced,  foreign  hypocrite  is  concerned ;  and  1 
will  prove  it  to  your  satisfaction  and  my  own  somo 
day,  before  long.     Well,  what  do  you  want  ?" 


i 


i\ 


In 


li 


I 


284 


REBECCA     TUE    HOUSEMAID. 


t 


She  turned  liarslily  upon  the  servant  who  entered, 
and  whose  knock  she  had  not  deigned  to  answer. 

"  Miss  Lncy,  there  is  a  young  woman  in  the  kitchen 
cotne  after  tlie  housemaid's  place." 

"  Who  is  she  ?     Where  does  she  come  from  ?" 

"  From  Boston,  she  says.  She  is  a  very  respectable- 
looking  young  woman,  and  brings  first-class  references, 
she  says." 

"  Show  her  in,  then." 

The  girl  retreated  for  a  minute,  and  re-appeared, 
showing  in  the  new  applicant  for  the  housemaid's 
place.  Miss  Sutherland,  something  of  a  physiognomist, 
was  struck  at  the  first  glance  by  the  young  woman. 
Slie  stood  before  her,  stately  and  tall,  slender  and 
graceful — a  handsome  young  woman,  beyond  a  doubt. 
Her  face  was  so  tliin  and  dark,  and  the  crimson  of  her 
cheeks  and  lips  so  living  and  vivid,  that  it  startled  you 
strangely.  Her  eyes  were  as  black  and  glittering  as 
glass  beads,  and  her  coal-black  hair  was  straight  and 
tliick  as  an  Indian's.  There  might  have  been  some- 
thing fierce,  perhaps,  in  those  glittering  black  eyes ; 
something  bitter  and  shrewish  in  the  sharply-com- 
pressed lips  ;  but  she  stood  respectfully  enough  before 
the  young  lady,  to  be  inspected.  Her  dr  jss  was  very 
simple,  and  exquisitely  neat. 

"  You  have  come  about  the  housemaid's  place," 
Miss  Sutherland  said,  at  length,  motioning  her  to  a  seat. 


, 


REBECCA     THE    UOUSEMAID. 


235 


"Yes,  Miss,"  the  young  woman  replied,   sitting 
down,  with  her  gloved  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and 
looking  steadfastly  at  Miss  Sutherland  out  of  her  shin- 
ing dark  eyes. 
■^    "  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Rebecca  Stone." 

"  Where  did  you  live  last  ?" 

"  "With  a  family  in  Boston,  Miss  ;  I  have  my  refer- 
ences with  me.  I  came  to  St.  Mary's  a  few  days  ago, 
to  see  some  friends  ;  and  hearing  you  wanted  a  house- 
maid, I  thought  I  would  apply  for  the  place.  I  am 
sure  I  can  give  satisfaction.  Miss." 

The  young  woman  spoke  with  a  fluent  ease  and  a 
quiet  self-possession  that  impressed  Miss  Sutherland. 
She  took  another  steadfast  and  suspicious  look  at  her, 
but  the  black-eyed  young  woman  did  not  flinch. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  was  the  next  query. 

"  Twenty-five,  Miss." 

"  And  how  long  have  you  been  at  service  ?" 

"  A  great  many  years,  Miss,  in  the  very  best  fami- 
lies. Here  is  my  character  from  the  last  lady  I  lived 
with,  Mrs.  Walker,  of  Beacon  street." 

Lucy  glanced  carelessly  over  the  paper. 

"  She  speaks  well  of  you,"  she  said  ;  "  we  are  very 
much  in  need  of  a  housemaid  at  present ;  and  I  like 
youi  appearance  better  than  that  of  the  other  appli- 
cants ;  so,  if  the  terms  suit  you,  you  may  come." 


■ '  I 


l:i 


236 


ItEBEGCA     THE    HOUSEMAID, 


(( 


(( 


(( 


)> 


The  terms  suit  me  very  well,  Miss. 

Yes.     And  when  can  you  come  ?" 

Eight  away,  Miss.     I  can  get  my  things  fetched 


up  to-night. 


)j 


a 


Th 


» 


hat  will  do.     King  the  bell,  please.' 

The  new  housemaid  obeyed. 

"  I  suppose  you  understand,"  said  l^Iiss  Sutherland, 
"  that  no  followers  are  allowed  ?" 

A  faint  smile  dawned  and  faded  on  the  young 
woman's  face. 

"  I  understand.  Miss.  I  don't  think  I  shall  give  you 
any  trouble  on  that  head." 

Again  Lucy  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  There  was 
something  in  her  tone  and  manner  of  speaking  unlike 
that  of  any  one  of  her  class  she  had  ever  had  to  deal 
with.  But  the  handsome,  bold,  brunette  face  before 
her  was  as  unreadable  as  a  page  of  Sanskrit ;  and  Rosa, 
the  waitress,  came  in  before  she  could  ask  any  more 
questions. 

"  Rosa,"  Miss  Sutherland  said,  "  this  is  the  new 
liousemaid.  Her  name  is  Rebecca,  and  she  can  sleep 
with  you.  She  is  going  to  remain  now ;  so  fetch  her 
up-stairs,  and  let  her  take  oH  her  things." 

Rebecca  followed  Rosa  out ;  and  Lucy  looked  after 
the  tall,  stately  figure  of  her  new  servant,  with  a  glance 
of  considerable  interest. 

"  There  is  character  in  the  gypsy  face  of    liat  girl," 


REBECCA     THE    UOUSEMAID. 


237 


she  said  to  licrself ;  "  tliosc  bold,  l)laek  eyes  of  hers  aro 
very  largo  print  indeed.  I  don't  think  blie  has  been  a 
housemaid  all  her  life,  her  assertion  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  I  shall  keep  my  eye  on  her,  I 
tliink." 

Once  again  the  sunlight  was  darkened.  Air.  and 
Mrs.  Sutherland  were  loitering  back  in  most  lover-like 
fashion,  and  the  sight  drove  the  new  housemaid  out  of 
lier  thoughts.  She  resumed  her  work,  but  with  a  dark 
frown  disfiguring  her  pale  face.  She  could  not  grow 
used  to  the  daily  sight  of  the  happiness  of  these  two. 
It  half  maddened  her  sometimes  to  see  them  loving  and 
beloved,  and  blessed  with  all  earthly  blessings,  and  feel 
that  it  was  out  of  her  power  to  blight  that  happiness. 
No  Indian  savage  could  have  been  more  thoroughly 
cruel,  and  cold-blooded,  and  revengeful,  than  she.  She 
could  have  seen  the  woman  she  hated  tied  to  a  stake, 
and  burning  to  death  ;  and  folded  her  arms,  and  smiled 
at  the  sight. 

Miss  Sutherland  kept  her  promise  to  watch  the  new 
honsemaid,  but  she  only  had  her  labor  for  her  pains. 
Kebecca's  conduct  was  above  reproach.  No  housemaid 
had  ever  given  such  satisfaction  at  Maplewood  before. 
No  duty  was  loft  unfulfilled,  no  work  was  slighted  or 
neglected.  She  had  a  rapid,  tidy  w^ay  of  doing  things, 
that  left  her  considerable  time  to  herself,  but  she  never 
seemed  to  want  it.     When  her  rcicular    duties   were 


^  ' 


I 


i 


\ 


« 


J[ 


-I 


^■::TiL':^'^\iSJ'* 


238 


REBECCA     THE    HOUSEMAID. 


concluded,  and  she  miglit  liavc  amused  herself  gossiping 
in  the  kitclien  with  her  fellow-servants,  she  would  come 
to  Miss  Sutherland  for  sewing,  and  sit  at  one  of  the 
front  windows  hy  herself,  stitching  away  industriously. 
She  was  altogether  such  a  model,  this  Rebecca,  that 
Lucy  took  quite  a  fancy  to  her,  before  the  end  of  the 
first  week.  This  in  itself  would  have  been  enough  to 
make  her  fellow-servants  dislike  her,  but  her  silent  and 
reticent  manner  had  already  done  that.  Cook  and 
lady's  maid,  waitress  and  coachman,  joined  together  in 
Btigm.atizing  her  as  "  that  stuck-up  thing,"  and  lost  no 
opportunity  of  making  her  feel  their  petty  malice. 
But  Rebecca  had  the  temper  of  an  angel,  and  nothing 
ever  came  of  it.  The  black  eyes  might  flash  flame,  the 
thin  lips  compress  until  nothing  remained  of  them  but 
a  crimson  line,  the  dark  face  might  pale  with  suppressed 
anger,  but  no  explosion  took  place.  If  she  had  a  tem- 
per to  match  those  flaming  black  eyes,  it  was  well  under 
control.  The  suppressed  fire  might  break  out  to  terri- 
ble purpose,  you  could  see,  but  not  while  that  iron  will 
held  it  chained.  She  was  Miss  Sutherland's  puzzle, 
still — the  reticence  of  the  girl  matched  her  own,  and 
baffled  her,  and  she  could  learn  nothing  more  of  her 
past  history  than  she  had  heard  that  first  day.  The 
handsome  housemaid  created  more  sensation  at  Maple- 
wood  than  ever  housemaid  created  before.  Even 
Arthur  was  struck  by  her  appearance. 


REBECCA     THE    nOUSEMAID. 


239 


"  I  say,  Lucy,"  he  said  one  day,  when  Rehecca 
swept  in  her  stately  way  across  the  drawiTig-room,  with 
baby  Euhilieiu  her  arms  ;  "  where  did  you  i)ick  up  this 
new  handmaiden  ?  She  looks  more  like  an  Indian  c[iiccu 
than  an  every-day  domestic." 

Lucy  explained. 

"  She's  a  remarkable-looking  young  person,"  said 
Mr.  Sutherland,  stretching  himself  on  a  lounge,  and 
opening  the  morning  paper ;  "  and  very  decidedly 
good-looking.  She'll  have  all  the  stable-boys  about 
the  place  falling  in  love  with  her,  if  you're  not  careful, 
Lucy." 

But  Rebecca  kept  stable-boys  and  everything  else 
masculine  at  a  discreet  distance.  They  might  admi/e 
those  flashing  black  eyes,  and  tar -black  tresses,  but  they 
must  admire  afar  off.  She  never  gossiped,  she  never 
flirted,  she  never  idled,  this  remarkable  new  house- 
maid. With  the  plain  sewing  Miss  Sutherland  gave 
her,  she  would  sit  at  one  of  the  front  windows  and 
work  as  if  her  life  depended  on  it,  until  the  stars  shone 
in  the  sky.  She  was  the  pink  and  perfection  of  house- 
maids, but  Lucy  Sutherland  was  not  satisfied.  All 
secrecy,  and  self-suppression,  and  industry  only  made 
her  the  more  suspicious. 

"Why  is  she  so  secretive  of  her  past  life?"  she 
thought ;  "  why  does  she  avoid  her  fellow-servants,  and 
keep  steadily  to  herself?    Why  is  she  in  so  much 


k 


n 


!  . 


! 


210 


EKDECCA     THE    HOUSEMAID. 


'\' 


liurry  with  her  proper  work,  and  bo  fond  of  sitting  sew- 
in*^  at  tlio  front  windows  ?  There  is  more  in  all  this 
tlian  meets  tlie  eye." 

Miss  Sutherland,  as  usual,  was  riglit.  Rebecca,  the 
housemaid,  like  herself,  was  on  the  watch ;  and  the 
person  watched  for  came  in  the  beginnin*^  of  the  second 
week.  It  was  a  sultry  August  evening — not  a  breath 
of  air  stirring  the  maples  and  hendocks,  and  the  setting 
sun  piercing  their  greenish  gloom  with  long  lances  of 
red  fire.  The  gii-1  sat  watching  the  western  sky^ 
flooded  with  the  scarlet  glory  of  the  sunset,  and  crossed 
with  billows  of  yellow  gold.  The  red  light  flashed 
back  from  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  wove  gleams  of  flro 
in  the  waves  of  her  iidv-black  hair,  gilded  the  roses  on 
her  cheeks,  and  lighted  her  bright,  dark  face  with 
a  new  beauty.  She  sat  with  her  chin  on  her  hand, 
looking  at  all  this  glory  of  coloring,  her  work,  fur 
once,  dro^^ping  idly  in  her  lap — lost  in  thought.  The 
quiet  lionse  was  as  still,  this  hot  August  evening,  as 
the  enchanted  castle  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  No 
Bonnd  londer  than  the  slipping  of  a  snake  among  the 
dry  underbrush,  the  chirping  of  a  restless  bird  in  its 
nest,  or  the  mysterious  fluttering  of  leaves  stirred  by 
no  wind,  came  to  distiu'b  her  reverie.  The  sound  of 
tlie  sea  was  like  the  faint,  ceaseless  sound  of  an  seolian 
harp,  and  Maple  wood  was  Iiushed  in  the  deep  calm  of 
eventide.      The  servants  had  drawn  their  chairs  out 


'  I 


liEBECCA     THE    UOUSEMAID. 


24t 


into  tlio  cool  porcli,  and  were  enjoying  tlicinselvcs 
tliere ;  but  thin  unsociiil  Ile])eccji  liad  no  doKirc  to  join 
tlicni.  Slie  sat  there  as  still  as  if  the  calm  enchantment 
of  the  place  and  hour  had  fallen  upon  her,  too  :  or  as 
if,  like  the  Sleeping  JJeauty,  she  waited  for  the  coming 
of  the  prince  to  rouse  her  to  life. 

Slowly,  out  of  the  sunset  sky,  the  blaze  of  the  sun- 
set fire  died.  Slowly  it  paled  and  faded,  and  the  big 
white  August  moon  sailed  up,  serene  amid  the  constel- 
lations in  the  deep-blue  arch.  With  the  moonlight 
came  the  prince,  as  if  he  ))elonged  to  it,  heralded  by 
vapory,  scented  circles  of  cigar-smoke.  Darkly  splendid 
— handsome  enough  for  any  earthly  prince — Mr.  Gaston 
Benoir  lounged  up  the  avenue,  smoking  at  his  ease. 
Beauty  unadorned  is  something  very  nice,  no  doubt ; 
but  beauty  adorned  in  the  height  of  the  faiBhion  is 
something  considerably  nicer.  The  ex-Troubadour  had 
rejuvenated  his  outward  man  within  the  last  week,  and 
appeared  now  arrayed  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  but  in 
perfect  taste.  Yery  few  could  have  looked  at  Mr. 
Benoir,  thus  dressed,  and  in  the  dusky  splendor  of  his 
southern  beauty,  without  turning  to  look  again,  as  they 
might  at  some  exquisite  picture.  The  handsome 
housemaid,  from  her  post  at  the  window,  looked  at  him 
with  a  strange,  wild  fire  gleaming  in  her  black  eyes. 
There  was  something  fiercely-passionate,  eager,  and 
11 


I  !l 


■ii 


24^ 


REBECCA     THE    HOUSEMAID. 


tender,  withal,  in  tliat  look ;  and  the  color  came  and 
went  on  her  face,  and  her  breath  cangLt  itself  in  flutter- 
ing gusts. 

"  At  last !"  she  said,  between  her  set  teeth,  "  at  last 
— at  last  he  has  come  I" 

Screened  by  heavy  damask  curtains,  the  girl  sat  and 
watched  him,  with  that  dusky  tire  in  her  eyes,  and  that 
passionate  light  in  her  face,  until  he  turned  off  round 
an  angle,  and  was  hid  by  the  trees.  The  last  rays  of 
the  daylight  had  faded ;  the  moon's  silver  radiance 
flooded  the  trees  and  lawns  and  gardens  and  ierraces 
with  the  light  of  day.  Rebecca  rose  up,  pale  with  mi- 
ward  excitement,  ran  up  to  her  room,  threw  a  black 
shawl  loosely  over  her  head,  came  noiselessly  down 
stairs,  and  left  the  house  unobserved.  There  had  been 
a  dinner-party  that  day,  and  the  family  were  assembled 
in  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Lucy,  ever  on  the  watch, 
was  safely  oat  of  the  way.  Out  in  the  moonlight, 
Rebecca  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  seaview  terrace, 
the  path  Mr.  Benoir  had  taken,  and  beheld  that  gentle- 
man leaning  lightly  on  the  railing,  smoking  still,  and 
watching  the  boats  gliding  in  and  out  of  the  moonlight. 
The  ouRpmaid  stood  still  in  the  shadow  cast  by  a  clump 
of  cedars,  and  waited.  He  had  not  heard  her,  and,  en- 
joying his  cigar  and  the  viev/  of  moonlight  on  the 
ocean,  wa^s  very  slow  in  turning   round.     Her  dark 


REBECCA     THE    nOUSEMAID. 


243 


dress  and  tlie  gloom  in  wliicli  she  stood  kept  him  from 
seeing  her  at  first,  but  slie  let  the  shawl  slip  loose  ofi 
her  head,  took  one  step  forward  into  the  light,  with  hia 
name  on  her  lips  :  "  Gaston  I" 


I . 


244 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE 


CHAPTEK  XYI. 

A  LITTLE  TANGLE  IN  MR.  BENOIR'S  WEB. 

K.   GASTON   BE:^TC)IR    was  a  gentleman 
whose  admirable  self-possession  was  not  to 
be   easily   disturbed  ;  but  he  started  back 
now  in  something  that  was  very  like  con- 
sternation. 

"  The — devil !"  said  Mr.  Benoir. 
Lucy  Sutherland's  strange  housemaid  came  fully 
out  into  the   broad   sheet   of  moonlight ;    her    long, 
straight  black  hair  tumbling  loose  about  her  shoulders  ; 
her  great,  fierce,  black  eyes  shining  like  ebon  stars. 

"No,  Gaston,  not  your  master;  only  one  of  his 
angels.  You  hardly  expected  ;  find  me  here,  did 
you  V 

Gaston  Benoir  replaced  his  cigar,  which,  in  the 
shock  of  the  moment  he  had  taken  out — all  his  own 
cool,  phlegmatic  self  once  more. 

"  Expect  to  see  you  here !"  he  said.  "  I  should  as 
soon  have  expected  to  see  Queen  Victoria  1  "Where  did 
you  drop  from,  Rebecca?" 


,^ 


1 


a 


JJH    MB.      BENOma     WED.  245 

From  New  York  last.     I  tracked  yon  from  that 


?) 


city  here. 

"  Trucked  me,  did  yon  I  Come,  I  like  that !  And 
what  are  yon  doing  here,  pray  ?" 

"  I  am  the  honsemaid." 

"The  what?"  cried  Mr.  Benoir,  aghast. 

"  The  honsemaid,"  calmly  replied  Rebecca ;  *^  and 
I  flatter  mysslf  Miss  Lncy  Sntherland  never  possessed 
snch  a  domestic  treasure  before." 

Mr.  Benoir  expressed  his  feelings  in  a  prolonged 
whistle. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  Solomon — I  think  it  was  Solo- 
mon, or  some  other  wiseacre — says,  '  There  is  nothing 
new  nndor  the  sun,'  and  I  used  to  believe  it ;  but  hang 
me  if  I  ever  believe  it  after  this.  Hebecca  Isaacs  a 
housemaid !  That  goes  a  little  ahead  of  anything  I 
ever  dreamed  of." 

"Rebecca  Stone,  if  you  please.  There  is  no  such 
person  as  Rebecca  Isaacs.  Are  you  not  curious  to  find 
out  how  I  discovered  you  were  here  ?" 

"  No  ;  it's  clear  enough.  That  confounded  minstrel- 
troupe,  I  suppose." 

"  Exactly.  I  followed  you  from  New  Orleans  to 
New  York,  from  New  York  to  St.  Mary's,  without 
pausing." 

"  The  deuce  you  did  I"  said  Mr.  Benoir,   with  any- 


'    * 


240 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE 


tiling  but  an  expression  of  rapture.     "  And  now  that 
you're  here,  wliat  do  you  want,  Miss  Stone  ?" 

Miss  Stone's  big  black  eyes  flashed. 

"  What  do  I  want  ?  And  is  it  Gaston  Benoir  who 
asks  that  question  ?" 

"  At  your  service,  Mademoiselle.  I  never  change 
my  name." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him — very  white,  her  black 
eyes  fierce  and  wild  in  the  misty  moonlight. 

"  Then  you  have  nothing  at  all  to  say  to  me,  Gaston 
Benoir  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  taking  her  fierce 
regards  very  quietly  ;  "  nothing  that  I  know  of  except 
— good  night." 

lie  lifted  his  hat  and  was  walking  away ;  but  Ke- 
becca,  the  housemaid,  stepi)ed  before  him,  and  barred 
his  path.  With  her  wild  black  hair  falling  loose  about 
her —her  deadly  pallor  and  flaming  eyes,  she  looked  like 
some  dark  prophetess  of  other  days,  or  some  tragedy- 
qu-'on  of  modern  times. 

"^0,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  deep,  suppressed,  but 
non.3  the  less  threatening.  "  No,  Gaston — we  do  not 
part  like  this.  I  have  not  traveled  over  land  and  sea, 
for  many  a  weary  day  and  night,  to  be  left  at  your 
sovereign  pleasure.  No,  Gaston,  not  good  night 
yet  1" 

"  As  you  please,  my  dear  Rebecca  j  only  this  place 


IN   MR.     BENOIRB    WEB. 


247 


t 
t 


being  open  to  every  one,  and  the  distance  to  my  hotel 
of  the  longest,  do  be  good  enough  to  cut  it  short." 

The  suppressed  passion  throbbing  intlie  girl's  white 
face  miglit  have  warned  him ;  but  he  was  not  to  be 
warned.  He  stood,  leaning  carelessly  against  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  slowly  puffing  out  clouds  of  scented  vapor, 
the  moonliMit  illuminatincr  his  handsome  face,  and 
flasliing  back  from  tlie  diamond  ring  he  wore  on  his 
little  finger.  Provokingly  nonchalant  he  stood  there, 
returning  Rebecca's  fiery  glare  with  supremest  uncon- 
cern. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  starting  up,  before  the  pas- 
sion she  was  holding  in  check  would  permit  her  to 
speak ;  "  if  we  have  to  enjoy  a  tete-a-tete  by  moonlight, 
we  really  must  not  stand  here.  Take  my  arm,  and 
come  this  way  ;  I  know  a  nice,  secluded  path,  where 
you  can  talk  and  I  can  smoke  to  our  hearts'  content, 
unobserved.  By  the  way,  I  hope  you  don't  dislike  my 
cigar — you  usen't  to,  I  remember.  Ah  !  this  is  quite 
like  old  times,  is  it  not,  Rebtcca?" 

He  drew  the  girl's  arm  within  his  own,  and  led  her 
down  an  avenue,  lonely  enough  for  anything ;  where 
quiet  maples  shut  out  even  the  moonlight.  A  few 
bright  rays,  slanting  through  the  boughs,  made  lines  of 
light  on  the  turf ;  and  no  sound  but  the  solcinn  mur- 
mur of  the  sea  and  the  trees  awoke  the  echoes  of  this 
lonesome  forest  aisle.     Perhaps  it  was  the  solemnity  of 


I  ^' 


r  III 


vx 


■  I 

'I 


iJ 


!•: 


if 


;  t* 


i 


218 


A    LITTLE    TANOLE 


the  place — perhaps  it  was  something  in  her  compan- 
ion's last  words  that  made  the  girl's  gypsy-face  alter  80. 
The  white  fury  tl)  ?re  an  instant  before  vanished,  and  a 
look  of  impassioned  appeal  and  despairing  love  came 
there  instead.  She  clasped  botli  hands  round  his  arm, 
and  looked  np  in  his  handsome  face,  with  all  a  woman's 
love,  and  despair,  and  hope,  in  her  great  black  eyes. 

"  Old  times,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Gaston !  you  have 
not  forgotten  old  times  ?" 

Some  memory  of  the  past  rose  np  from  her  heart 
and  choked  lier  voice.  Mr.  Benoir  took  ont  his  cigar 
and  daintily  knocked  off  the  ashes  with  the  tip  of  his 
little  linixer. 

"  Forget !  of  course  not.  Any  more  than  I  ever 
forget  your  o^vn  dark  face,  my  gypsy  !  Oh,  no ;  I  have 
an  excellent  memory,  I  flatter  myself." 

"  And  remembering,  you  could  meet  me  as  you  did, 
and  speak  to  me  as  you  did,  not  two  minutes  ago.  Oh, 
Gaston,  you  have  nearly  broken  my  heart.' 

Again  there  came  that  hysterical  choking  in  her 
throat.  Mr.  Benoir  took  out  his  cigar  once  more  in 
some  alarm.  If  anything  in  this  mortal  life  disturbed 
his  equanimity,  it  was  a  scene,  and  there  seemed  con- 
siderable danger  of  that  annoyance  just  at  present. 

"  Now,  Rebecca,  don't !  dont,  I  beg !  don't  make  a 
scene.  Don't  agitate  yourself,  my  dear  girl !  it  will  do 
you  no  good,  and  it  will  ruffle  my  feelings  beyond  de- 


IN     MR.     BENOmS     WEB. 


249 


^' 


Ir 


Bcription.  Say  wliat  you  want  to  say  quietly — there  is 
nothing  in  this  world  like  doing  things  quietly  ;  and  the 
worst  of  you  women  is,  that  you  never  can  be  brought 
to  understand  it.  You  will  flare  up;  you  will  go  ofl 
into  hysterics  at  a  moment's  notice ;  you  will  persist 
in  being  agitated,  and  ecstatic,  and  enthusiastic  and 
ridiculous  in  the  extreme.  It  is  a  universal  failing  of 
the  sex,  lamentable  to  a  degree.  Calm  yourself,  my 
dear  Rebecca ;  take  your  time;  don't  be  in  a  hurry. 
Say  what  you  want  to  say,  by  all  means;  but  do  it  with 
Christian  composure,  1  beg." 

The  black-eyed  housemaid  listened  to  this  harangue 
as  if  she  neither  heard  nor  comprehended.  Both  hands 
were  still  clasped  round  liis  arm — the  bold,  bright  eyes, 
looking  straight  before  her,  not  at  the  leafy  arcade 
through  which  the  moon-rays  sifted,  but  into  the  past, 
were  soft  and  misty  with  love's  remembrances.  Mr. 
Benoir,  resuming  his  cigar,  regarded  his  fair  companion 
in  some  perplexity. 

"  If  pretty  little  Sophie  were  here  now,"  he  thought, 
"  wouldn't  there  be  a  row  !  Thank  goodness  she's  not. 
Confound  the  women  !  what  a  nuisance  the  whole  race 
are  ;  and  this  she-devil  beside  me,  the  worst  of  all !" 

"  Gaston,"  said  the  girl,  "  you  loved  me  once ;  in  those 
old  days,  when  I  was  so  very,  very  happy,  when  I  be- 
lieved, and  trusted,  and  loved  you  with  my  whole  heart. 
Gaston,  you  deserted  me — no,  do  not  deny  it ;  you  know 
11* 


1 


; 


n 


|i 


v-f, 

If 

i  I 


;  I 


250 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE 


\\\ 


)3| 


yon  (lid.  You  grew  tired  of  my  dark  face,  and  wild 
l)lack  eyes ;  and  you  left  me.  Once  I  thought,  before 
I  knew  you,  that  no  man  could  do  that  and  live.  I  am 
a  Jewess,  and  I  suppose  there  is  fierce  blood  in  my 
veins;  but  I  loved  ycu  so  well! — oh,  so  well,  Gaston, 
that  you  never  can  fathom  one  iota  of  that  passionate 
woioiilp.  I  loved  you  so  well  that  I  forg.'ive  your  de- 
sertion, and  became  a  coward  ;  as  poor,  pitiful  and 
weak  a  craven  us  any  love-siok  woman  can  be.  I  fol- 
lowed you  here,  ciiring  nothing  for  long,  weary  days  of 
travel,  for  hunger,  slec])less  nights,  for  no  toil,  or  trial, 
or  disappointment,  so  that  I  found  you,  so  that  I  won 
you  to  love  me  again.  I  have  found  you,  Gaston  ;  and 
now,  is  all  the  love  of  other  days  dead  so  coon  for  poor 
Rebecca  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  look  that  is  sometimes 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  dogs,  crouching  at  their  master's 
feet,  expecting  a  blow.  Usually  her  color  was  bright 
enough  ;  but  the  pale,  cold  moonlight  itself  was  not 
paler  than  her  face  now. 

Mr.  Benoir  had  smoked  out  his  cigar,  and  threw 
it  among  the  ferns  and  strawberry  vmes,  where  it 
glowed  like  a  red  sinister  eye  watching  them. 

"  My  dear  Rebecca,"  Mr.  Benoir  began,  in  an  ex- 
postulating tone,  ^'  I  told  you  not  to  excite  yours'^lf — • 
to  be  Cctlm  ;  and  yoii.  are  excited,  and  you  are  i  ot  calm. 
You  are  as  white  as  a  ghost,  and  your  big  black  eyes 


111- 


w^) 


IN     Mli.     DENOms     VrED. 


251 


r 


are  tliushirig  sparks  of  lir^,     Come,  bo  a  good  girl ;  give 
mc  a  kiss,  and  make  up  Incnds.'" 

This  was  soothing ;  but,  perhaps,  not  as  satisfactory 


[Id  be  wished.    Mr.  Bi 


kissed  hi 


an  answer  as  couia  be  wisaea.  Mr.  lienoir 
as  composedly  as  he  did  everything  else  ;  and  the  girl's 
head  fell  on  his  shoulder  with  a  great  gasping  sob. 
Esau  sold  his  birthright  for  something  to  eat — character- 
istic of  the  sex  ;  had  Esau  been  a  woman,  he  would 
have  sold  it  for  a  kiss,  and  thought  he  had  a  bargain  ! 
Yol.1  see,  a  woman  madly  in  love  is  blind,  mad,  and  a 
fool ;  let  the  happy  m:in  tell  her  Ijlack  is  white,  and  she 
will  believe  him,  against  the  evidence  of  her  own  eye- 
siffht  and  the  assertion  of  all  the  world.  Younijc  women 
witli  big  black  eyes  and  tar-black  hair  are  apt  ti»  love 
and  hate  pretty  strongly  ;  and  really  Mr.  Benoir  was  as 
handsome  ai;;  an  angel.  ''  Love  me  little,  h)ve  me  long,'' 
is  the  most  sensiljle  of  old  adages — this  love  at  furnace 
heat  is  not  the  kind  that  lasts  ;  and  its  unhappy  vic- 
tims, tortured  by  it  for  a  time,  are  very  likely  to  go  off 
into  the  other  extreme  of  hatred  and  abhorrence  at  a 
moment's  notice. 

*  Mr.  Benoir  came  to  a  halt  in  the  moonlit  arcade, 
and  put  his  arm  round  Luc}'  Sutherland's  housemaid's 
waist — it  was  the  least  any  young  man,  not  a  St.  Kevin, 
could  do — and  v/aited  witli  exemplary  patience  for  a  fit 
of  hysterical  sobbing  to  pass  oif. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  said  Mr.  Bei\oir  to  himself,  phil- 


;t 


.  },* 


«!• 


I  ! 


r^^-^^rr'o 


253 


A    LITTLE    TAN-OLE 


osophically,  "  the  nature  of  thcso  women.  Now,  if  I 
liad  tokl  this  girl  to  go  to  the  deuce,  and  be  done  with 
it,  she  would  have  flared  up,  no  doubt — she's  the  kind 
to  do  it — but  she  would  not  have  shed  a  tear.  Instead, 
for  the  sake  of  peace  and  quietness,  I  give  her  a  kiss, 
wliich,  I  suppose,  is  what  she  wants,  and  lo !  she  drops 
down  and  drenches  my  coat-collar  immediately.  I  wish 
I  had  never  made  love  in  my  life.  I  wish  I  was  well 
out  of  this  scrape.  Rebecca  Isaacs  is  not  the  kind  of 
woman  one  can  court  for  pastime  and  desert  at  pleas- 
ure. I  shall  have  to  tell  lies  by  the  yard  to  keep  her 
quiet  for  the  present,  at  least. '^ 

As  telling  lies  was  quite  in  Mr.  Benoir's  line  of  life, 
and  as  he  was  as  perfect  in  the  art  as  it  is  possible  for 
poor  human  nature  to  be,  it  was  no  difficult  task  to  de- 
ceive a  woman  who  loved  him. 

"  I  acted  wrong  in  going  off  as  I  did,  beyond  a 
doubt,"  Mr.  Benoir  admitted,  with  captivating  frank- 
ness. "  I  don't  ask  you  to  excuse  that,  Rebecca ;  but 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  no  other  has  ever  taken 
your  place.  I  am  not  the  sort  of  fellow  to  fall  in  love 
and  out  every  other  week,  and  I  always  intended  when 
I  had  a  few  thousands  saved  to  go  South  and  be  mar- 
ried. I  knew  you  would  wait  for  me,  Rebecca ;  but, 
somehow,  the  thousands  are  very  slow  in  coming 
What  with  going  round,  and  one  thing  and  another, 
a  fellow's  money  goes  before  he  knows  it,  and  it  is  aa 


y 


A 


IN     MR.     DENOWa     WED, 


233 


much  as  he  can  do  to  keep  himself,  much  less  a  wife. 
There,  yon  have  it ;  and  I  never  mean " — said  Mr. 
Benoir,  with  the  air  of  a  Spartan — "  to  marry  until  I 
can  support  a  wife  as  a  wife  should  be  supported." 

"  Gaston,"  Rebecca  said,  her  dark  oyes  soft  and 
beautiful  in  their  new  and  happy  light ;  "  do  you 
think  one  who  loved  you  would  care  for  your  poverty  ? 
Oh,  my  love !  you  know  me  better  than  that !" 

"  And  I  know  myself,"  said  Mr.  Duiioir,  lirndy. 
"  I  care  for  you  a  great  deal  too  much  to  entail  on  you 
the  trials  of  a  poor  man's  wife.  No,  Rebecca,  you 
must  have  faith  in  me,  and  wait  a  little  longer.  My 
prospects  are  brighter  just  at  present  than  they  have 
been  for  years." 

Some  secret  exultation  in  his  tone  that  he  could 
not  quite  repress  made  the  girl  look  at  him,  and  notice, 
for  the  first  time,  the  new  broadcloth  suit  and  flashing 
diamond  ring. 

"  You  have  a  prosperous  look,  Gaston,"  she  said. 
"  What  are  the  prospects  of  which  you  speak  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  mysteriously,  "  that  is  my 
secret.  A  little  speculation,  my  dear — a  speculation, 
that,  I  think,  Avill  make  me  a  nch  man." 

"  Is  it  anything  connected  with  Mrs.  Sutherland  ^" 
she  asked. 

Mr.  Benoir  stood  still,  abruptly,  his  dark  face 
paling,  his  eyes  full  of  sudden  alarm. 


"s. 


! 


i' 


\\ 


i  f 


r 

1    , 


':i 


2.)  I 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE 


ti 


Mrs.  Siitlierlund  !"  he  repeated.     "  VVluat  do  you 


?5 


know  of  Mrs.  Siitlujrland,  llehecea  Isaaes  ? 

"  So,"  said  Rtjhecca,  quietly,  "  I  see  I  am  ri«^iit.  It 
was  Mrs.  Sutherland,  then,  who  met  you  last  Thursday 
iiii'ht  in  the  summer-house  over  there.  I  never  waa 
quite  sure  of  it  until  now." 

With  that  startled  pallor  still  on  his  face,  the  ex- 
Trouhadour  grasped  the  girPs  arm  with  a  grip  that 
made  ht'r  wince. 

"  I  say,  Jiebecca,"  he  cried,  liis  eyes  fierce,  his 
mouth  stern,  "  I  want  to  know  v  iiat  this  means.  How 
came  you  to  know  anything  of  my  meeting  Mrs. 
Sutherland  in  the  summer-house  ?  Have  you  been  at 
your  old  tricks — acting  the  sj)y  ?" 

"  Yes.     Let  go  my  arm,  sir  I     You  Imi-t  me !" 

"  I  shall  hurt  you  worse,  perhaps,"  said  Mr. 
Benoir,  between  his  set  teeth,  "  before  I  have  done. 
Tell  me  what  you  have  heard  ?" 

"  I  heard  nothing.  Let  go  my  arm,  I  tell  you, 
Gaston  !     You  hurt  me !" 

"  You  heard  nothing  !"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  slightly  re- 
leasing his  grasp,  but  still  stern  and  pale.  "  How  do  you 
come  to  know  anything  at  all  of  the  matter,  then  ?" 

"  Simply  enough,"  Rebecca  replied.  "  I  came  to 
St.  Mary's  that  very  day,  and  stoj)pcd  in  the  hotel 
opposite  yours.  From  my  window^,  I  watched  you 
loitering  all  the  afternoon,  in  and  out,  on  the  veranda, 


i 


IN    Mil.     DENOIR'S     WICB. 


2.59 


^ 


8iii(jkin«ij  niid  rcadiiii^;  and  at  dusk,  I  saw  you  Htart  for 
]\Ia[)lu\vood.  I  followed  you — don't  scowl,  (Jaston — I 
had  reason  to  distrust  you — followed  you  to  Maple- 
wood  through  the  rain  and  dju'kncss,  saw  you  enter  the 
Buniiner-houae,  and  crouc^hed  down  outside  to  watch 
and  wait.  Half  an  hour  after  I  saw  a  woman  enter;  a 
little  woman,  so  mullled  up  tliat  I  could  not  sec  her 
face,  alt]iou<5h  I  did  my  best.  Neither  could  I  liear — 
apiin  no  fault  of  ndne  ;  and  when  you  left  the  sununer- 
liouse,  I  followed  you  hack  to  the  villiij^e.  I  thoui^lit 
that  ni^'ht  the  woman  who  stole  to  meet  you  was  my 
successful  rival,  and  how  I  hated  her,  all  uidcnown ! 
AVhat  dark  thoughts  the  devil  was  puttinpj  in  my  head 
as  I  walked  after  you  in  the  dai'kness,  perhaps  it  is  as 
well  f(jr  your  peace  of  mind  not  to  know." 

Mr.  Benoir  drew  a  lon:^  breath  of  unspeakable 
relief,  lie  knew  the  woman  he  was  talking  to,  ho 
knew  when  to  believe  her,  and  when  to  doubt.  She 
■was  telling  the  truth  now,  and  he  was  safe — she  had 
not  heard  what  had  passed,  after  all.  Once  more,  he 
drew  her  arm  within  his  own — they  had  been  standing 
all  this  time — and  recommenced  his  walk  up  and  down 
the  shadowy  -puth. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it !  You  felt  like  running  your 
stiletto  into  me — didn't  you,  my  love  ?  Arc  you  jealous 
still?" 

"  No." 


'>      'i! 


i  '1;  '! 

m 


ill 


:l 


m. 


256 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE 


"  And  wliy  not,  pray?" 

^'  Because  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Sutherland  since  that 
night ;  and  I  know  it  was  she  who  met  you  in  the 
Bummer-house." 

"  The  deuce !     How  do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  I  looked  well  at  my  supposed  rival,  Gaston — her 
'height,  her  gait ;  and  no  one  at  Maplewood  corresponds 
with  the  height  and  gait  of  tiie  woman  who  met  you 
but  Mrs.  Sutherland." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  looking  at  her  sideways 
from  under  liis  eyelashes ;  "  and  supposing  it  to  have 
been  Mrs.  Sutherland — Mrs.  Sutherland  is  a  very  pretty 
woman :  the  prettiest  woman  I  think  I  ever  saw — your 
pardon,  my  love;  why  are  you  not  jealous  still?" 

"  Because  Mrs.  Sutherland  does  not  love  you  !" 

"  Ah  I     Are  yen  sure  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Rebecca,  calmly.  "  Mrs.  Suther- 
land does  not  love  you,  and  does  love  her  husband  with 
her  whole  hoart's  devotion.  No,  Gaston,  I  am  not 
jealous.  Mrs.  Sutherland  met  you  that  night,  I  am 
convinced,  but  aot  to  play  the  false  wife.  Whatever 
brought  her  to  commit  such  an  act  of  folly,  love  has  no 
share  in  it." 

"  You  are  right,  Rebecca,"  Mr.  Benoir  said,  with 
sudden  gravity  ;  "  lovo  had  no  share  in  it.  Since  you 
know  so  nmch,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  more.  Mrs. 
Siitherland  did  meet  me  that  night,  very  much  against 


' 


IN    MR.    BENOIWa     WEB. 


257 


' 


her  will,  poor  little  woman;  but  the  secret  that  gives 
me  power  over  her  is  no  guilty  amour.  Slie  is  no 
rival  of  yours,  Rebecca.  She  hates  me,  as  I  suppose 
an  angel  would  hate  Lucifer ;  and  there  is  little  love 
lost.  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  what  this  secret  is ; 
some  day,  when  you  are  my  wife.  And,"  thought 
Mr.  Benoir,  considering  the  sentence  mentally,  "  it  is 
very  likely  I  will,  when  you  arc  my  wife." 

"  "When  I  am  your  wife,"  repeated  the  girl,  wearily. 
"  Ah  1  how  very,  very  long  that  time  is  in  coming.  I 
had  hoped  long  ago  to  have  been  your  wife." 

"  The  time  will  come  soon  now,  my  dear.  Be 
patient  and  wait,  and  trust  me  a  little  longer,  my  own. 
And  now,  before  we  part,  tell  me  how  you  ever  came 
to  be  a  servant  here  ?" 

"  I  had  to  do  something ;  and  I  heard  you  came 
here  every  day.  I  found  out  a  housemaid  was  wanted. 
I  applied  for  the  place,  got  it,  and  fill  it  admirably,  as 
I  told  you  before." 

"You're  a  wonderful  girl,"  said  Gaston  Benoir, 
looking  at  her  in  real  admiration ;  "  a  genius,  my 
gypsy  !  Will  they  not  miss  you  within  there  ;  or  is  it 
*  my  night  out '  ?" 

Rebecca  laughed  slightly. 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  have  no  night  out,  and  no  followers. 
Miss  Lucy  thinks  me  the  pink  and  pattern  of  all  hoiise- 
maids." 


/ 


SoH 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE 


"  And  how  do  you  like  Miss  Lucy?" 

"  Not  at  all !  I  sliould  liato  her,  if  it  were  worth 
the  trouble.  Slie  studies  me,  and  I  study  her.  I  don't 
know  wliat  she  makes  me  out,  but  I  have  set  her  down 
as  the  greatest  hj-pocrite  that  ever  lived." 

"Strong  language,  my  dear.  What  has  Miss  Lucy 
Sutherland  done  to  offend  you?" 

"  Nothing  to  offend  me.  We  get  on  most  amicably 
together,  and  I  know  her  to  be  an  arch-hypocrite  all 
the  time.  How  she  does  hate  Mrs.  Sutherland,  to  be 
Bure  !" 

"  Hates  her,  does  she  ?" 

"  Yes,  as  only  one  jealous  woman  can  hate 
another." 

"  Jealous  !     You  never  mean  to  say,  Rebecca — " 

"  I  do  mean  to  say  Lucy  Sutherland  is  furiously 
jealous  of  her  cousin's  w^ife.  She  hates  her  for  her 
beauty  and  her  riches,  and  j^erhaps  for  her  hus- 
band !" 

Mr.  Benoir  uttered  a  very  prolonged  "  Oh  !" 

"  Trust  one  woman  to  read  another,  Gaston !  And 
now,  for  to-night,  we  must  part ;  Miss  Lucy  must  not 
miss  her  model  housemaid.  I  don't  think  she  believes 
in  me  as  entirely  as  she  pretends  ;  and,  while  I  remain 
here,  I  don't  wish  to  give  her  any  grounds  for  suspicion. 
When  can  I  see  you  again,  Gaston  ?" 

She   clasped  her  hands  again  round  his  arm,  and 


IN    MR.     BENOIR'S     WEB. 


259 


look  3d  up  in  liis  lumdsome  face  with  cjcs  full  of  love 
and  hope. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  "  all  times  are  alike  to  me  ; 
but,  if  you  don't  wish  to  excite  talk,  I  suppose  our 
interviews  had  better  be  cliindestine.  Lot  me  see — 
this  is  Tuesday — suppose  you  meet  mo  here  Friday 
evening  again.  And,  in  the  meinitime,  watch  the 
Sutherland  family — Mrs.  Sutherland  particularly — and 
fetch  as  nmch  news  witl.v  you  as  3'ou  can  when  you 
come.  I  feci  an  interest  in  that  little  lady.  I  shall 
tell  you  why  when  you  are  Mrs.  Benoir." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  They  were  out  in  the 
moonlight ;  and  the  gypsy  face  of  the  girl  was  radiant. 

"  Oh,  my  love !  my  love !"  she  cried,  her  face 
drop])ing  on  his  shoulder,  "  you  know  I  am  your  very 
slave ;  ready  to  obey  your  iiVGry  connnand,  ready  to 
die  for  you,  if  it  were  necessary.  Oli,  Gaston  !  I  have 
endunjd  more  than  you  can  dream  of  to  reach  you.  If 
you  prove  false  to  me  now,  I  shall  die  !" 

"  Ko,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  laughing  lightly ;  "  you 
don't  mean  that,  Rebecca !  it  is  I  who  should  die !" 

Rebecca  lifted  her  head,  a  strange,  wild  lire  in  the 
depths  of  her  great  black  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  you  should  die  !" 

Mr.  Benoir  recoiled  a  little.  The  girl  was  terribly 
in  earnest — terrible  in  her  love,  most  terrible  in  her 


I  ;*: 


3G0 


A    LITTLE    TANGLE. 


liatred.  For  a  moment,  a  cliill  of  cold  fear  made  the 
young  man  shiver  in  the  warm  air. 

"  Pshaw !"  lie  said,  impatiently,  "  what  are  we 
talking  of  ?     Good  night,  and  pleasant  dreams." 

There  was  a  most  lover-like  embrace;  and  then 
the  dark  housemaid  flitted  into  the  house;  and  Mr. 
Benoir,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  went  whistling 
softly  on  his  way,  in  no  pleasant  humor,  however,  for 
liis  brows  were  knit,  and  his  face  stern. 

"  Confound  the  girl !"  he  thought ;  "  has  Satan 
sent  her  here  to  balk  me  !  I  wisli  he  had  her,  body 
and  bones  ;  for  she  is  as  near  akin  to  him  as  anything 
in  woman's  shape  can  well  be.  I  have  henrd  of  the 
transmigration  of  souls  ;  and,  if  there  be  anything  in 
the  matter,  I  fancy  the  soul  of  a  tiger  must  have  got 
into  her  body.  Eebcc  3a  Isaacs,  I  wish  the  old  demon 
had  you  I" 


ON    THE    SCENT, 


861 


I 


CHAPTER  XYIL 


ON  THE  SCENT. 


UCY  SUTHERLAND  stood  in  the  beautiful 
breakfast-parlor  of  Maplewood,  looking 
thoiiglitfully  out  at  the  summer  prospect 
of  swelling  meadows,  where  the  slow  cows 
grazed  ;  of  dark  pine  woods,  cool  and  fragrant ;  and  the 
nearer  prospect  of  lawn,  and  glade,  and  flower-garden, 
all  steeped  in  the  yellosv  glory  of  the  August  sunshine. 
The  early  breeze,  with  the  saline  frei-hness  of  the  sea, 
fluttered  the  white  lace  curtains  and  stirred  the  roses 
and  the  geraniums  and  morning-glories  in  the  parterre 
below.  The  sea  itself,  boundless  and  blue,  and  flashing 
back  the  radiant  sunshine,  spread  out  before  her;  and 
over  all,  land  and  sea,  brooded  the  blessed  calm  of 
country  life.  But  Lucy  Sutherland's  blue  eyes  looked 
neither  at  the  green  fields  nor  the  blue  sea — they  were 
turned  inward  in  her  dark  thoughts.  Yery  bitter 
thoughts  for  one  so  young  and  fair  as  she  looked, 
standing  there,  with  the  sunshine  making  a  halo  on  her 
fair  hair,  and  tlie  sea  wind  toying  with  the  azure  rib- 


if 


!Ha 


> 


i 


:M 


»itfi 


jt.tf 


''14 


iBiiiHHai 


2G2 


ON    THE    aOENT. 


bons  triMiming  her  pretty  morning-dress.  Beautifully 
neat  and  fresh  everytliing  she  wore  ;  she  looked  a  very 
fireside- fairy,  delicate  and  womanly  in  outward  seeming, 
most  evil  and  Tinwomanly  at  heart.  She  was  alone  in 
the  room — that  is  to  say,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutherland 
were  not  down  yet ;  but  Hosa,  the  waitress,  was  setting 
the  table,  humming  a  little  tune  to  herself  the  while. 
Presently,  Miss  Sutherland  turned  round. 

"  Rosa,  has  James  gone  to  the  post-office  yet  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Miss,  long  ago." 

"  It  is  time  he  was  back.     Go  and — " 

Miss  Sutherland  stopped.  James,  errand-boy  of 
the  house,  came  in  with  the  letter-bag.  Kosa  laid- it  on 
the  table,  iinished  her  task,  and  left  the  room,  and  Miss 
Lucy  opened  the  bag  and  took  out  its  contents.  Some 
papers  for  Mr.  Sutherland,  half  a  dozen  letters,  one  for 
herself  from  her  mother,  two  for  Mrs.  Sutherland,  one 
in  the  irregular  scrawl  of  Augusta,  the  other — Lucy 
dropped  the  rest  and  stood  looking  at  it. 

"  Postmarked  in  the  village,"  she  thought.  "  Who 
can  be  her  correspondent  ?  It  is  a  woman's  hand  sure- 
ly ;  but  what  woman  in  St.  Mary's  writes  to  Mrs. 
Sutherland  ?     Can  it  be — " 

She  j^aused — stopped  her  very  thoughts.  An  idea 
tliat  was  like  an  electric  flash  made  her  clutch  the  letter 
suddenly  and  fiercely,  her  heart  throbbing  against  her 
side.     The  hall-clock  struck  nine — half  an  hour  yet  bo 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


203 


i 


fore  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutherland  would  descend  to  break- 
fast. Hiding  the  letter  in  a  pocket  in  her  dress,  she 
went  up-stairs  to  her  own  room  and  examined  it.  It 
was  a  common  buff  envelope,  the  gummed  flap  stuck 
down  in  the  usual  way.  She  held  it  up  between  her- 
self and  the  light,  but  the  yellow  envelope  was  too 
thick,  not  a  word  could  be  made  out. 

"  I  shall  know  for  all  that,"  thought  Lucy,  looking 
at  the  mysterious  letter.  "  All  is  fair  in  war,  they  say. 
Eulalie  Sutherland  has  no  female  correspondent  in  St. 
Mary's.  I  know  as  well  as  I  am  living  that  this  letter 
is  from  that  man,  Gaston  Benoir." 

Miss  Sutherland  rose  deliberately,  lit  her  gas,  held  a 
knife  in  the  flame  until  it  was  heated,  and,  with  tlie 
utmost  care  and  precision,  opened  the  envelope  without 
tearing  it.  She  took  out  a  folded  sheet  of  note-paper, 
written  in  a  bold,  big  hand,  not  at  all  like  the  spidery 
tracery  of  the  address,  and  ravenously  devoured  its  con- 
tents.    It  was  very  brief. 

"  My  Dear  Mrs.  Sutherland  : — Meet  me  to-mor- 
row-night at  our  former  trysting-place,  and  at  the  same 
hour.  Don't  let  your  pocket  be  quite  so  empty,  please, 
as  it  was  the  last  time.     Devotedly,  G.  B." 

Lucy  Sutherland's  heart  stood  still.  Intense  sur- 
prise was  for  the  first  moment  her  only  feeling.  What- 
ever she  had  fancied,  she  dreamed  of  nothing  so  bad  aa 


■A':n 


yvl 


>' 


\  il 


l-:ii 


mtttmm 


204 


OiV    THE    SCENT. 


I 


this.     A  fierce  liglit  of  vladictivc  joy  flamed  up  in  the 
pule  ])hie  eyes,  and  her  little  thin  hand  clenched  itself, 
I  as  if  the  woman  she  hated  was  crushed  hi  the  grasp. 

"At  last!"  was  the  triumphant  thought ;  "at  last 
my  hour  has  come  !  I  have  *  ited  "  ai  'or  a  longtime, 
Eulalie  Itohan,  but  this  repays  m.o  fof  all." 

She  refolded  the  letter,  rcphu'cd  it  w  the  envelope, 
moistened  the  flap  with  some  liquid  gum,  and  sealed  it. 
It  wanted  still  ten  minutes  of  the  breakfast-hour  when 
she  returned  to  the  parlor,  and  she  had  time  to  arrange 
the  letters  on  the  table  before  her  cousin  and  his  wife 
came  down.  The}'  entered  together — Eulalie  in  a 
loose  white  cashmere  dressing  gown,  leaning  on  her 
husband's  arm. 

"  Good  morning,  Lucy,"  Arthur  said.  *'  Our  letters 
liave  come,  I  see.  Ah !  one  from  my  motl^er,  too. 
You  have  one  from  iV.ugusta,  I  see,  Eulalie." 

Eulalie  tore  it  open  eagerly,  without  looking  at  the 
one  below  it.  It  was  as  brief  and  spasmodic  as  that 
young  lady's  epistles  generally  were,  and  Eulalie  looked 
up  from  it  with  a  smile. 

"  Augusta's  opinion  of  Cape  May  is  not  very  flatter- 
ing to  the  place  or  the  people.  Philip  Sutherland  is 
with  them,  and  she  abuses  him  almost  more  than  Cape 
May.  He  is  the  dullest  and  most  insufferable  of  idiots, 
she  says,  and  wanders  about  all  day,  smoking  and  bath- 
ing, and  lying  on  the  sands,  too  lazy  to  live.     Cape 


ON    THE    8GENT. 


2G5 


Vi^y  is  drearier  than  the  New  York  Tombs,  and  the 
nit  u  ill  it  are  a  ct  of  simpering  ninnies.  Poor  dear 
Aigusta!  1  am  afraid  she  -vas  in  very  bad  liumor 
V'ith  the  world  and  herbolf  when  she  wrote  this  let- 
ter." 

She  laid  it  down  and  took  np  the  other.  Lncy, 
silently  observant,  saw  the  instantaneous  pallor  that 
blanched  the  girlish  countenance — the  cold  turn  th^t 
made  every  line  of  her  face  rigid.  She  saw  how  I  !uC 
hand  that  opened  the  letter  shook,  and  how  tlu.  tv,  <>» 
were  thrust  together  into  the  pocket  of  her  dress  J.  .'a} 
mw  how  cilectually  it  had  taken  away  her  app^^'e.  as 
she  sat  with  her  chocolate  growing  stagnant  in  hCi  cup, 
and  the  toast  unlasted  on  her  plate.  Mr.  Sutherland, 
absorbed  in  his  own  correspondence,  saw  nothing,  so 
Lucy  was  good  enough  to  call  his  attention. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Sutherland,"  she  said,  with  un- 
wonted solicitude,  *'  I  fear  you  are  not  well.  You  eat 
nothing,  and  you  arc  looking  pale." 

"  I  am  very  well,  thank  you,"  Euhdie  said,  but  her 
voice  faltered ;  and  her  husband,  looking  up,  saw  the 
white  change  that  had  come  over  her. 

"  My  dear  Eulalie,"  ho  said,  anxiously,  "  what  is 
the  matter  ?  Your  face  is  as  white  as  your  dress.  Are 
you  ill  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !" 

"  Then,  why  are  you  looking  so  pale,  darling  1" 
12 


2CG 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


She  tried  to  smile,  not  bravo  enough  to  meet  tho 
strong,  loving  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Notliing,  Arthur.  I  am  perfectly  well,  I  assure 
you.  My  looking  pale  is  nothing.  Finish  your  letters 
and  never  mind  me." 

She  poured  the  cold  contents  of  her  cup  out,  and 
passed  it  to  Lucy  to  be  refilled.  Ailhur,  a  little  reas- 
sured, resumed  his  reading ;  l)ut  every  few  minutes  his 
anxious  eyes  wandered  from  tho  paper  to  his  wife's 
face.  Lucy  sat,  pale,  calm,  and  exultant,  slowly  eating 
her  breakfast,  and  revolving  in  her  mind  a  little  plan 
of  her  own  for  the  day.  She  looked  at  lier  cousin  ub 
he  laid  down  his  last  letter,  and  found  his  anxious 
gaze  still  fixed  on  Eulalie. 

**  Arthur,"  she  said,  as  if  the  thought  had  just 
struck  her, "  who  is  that  young  man  who  seems  to  have 
obtained  the  entree  of  Maplevvood  so  much  of  late  ?" 

"  What  young  man  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Sutherland. 

"  That  is  what  I  ask  you.  A  tall,  foreign-looking, 
rather  gentlemanly  person,  dark,  and  very  handsome." 

"  Dark  and  very  handsome  ?  Why,  that  must  bo 
the  man  whom  Kobinson,  the  gardener,  was  telling  me 
about.  I  forget  his  name — it  has  a  foreign  sound,  too 
— Lenoir,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

Eulalie  arose  suddenly,  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Her  husband  glanced  after  her  in  some  surprise. 
"  Have  you  finished  breakfast,  my  love  V 


I 


ON    TUB    SCENT. 


267 


"Yes,  Artlmr.-' 

"And  tasted  nothing,"  said  Lucy.  "You  really 
cannot  be  well,  Mrs.  Sutherland." 

"  I  am  perfectly  well." 

"  And  what  about  this  very  handsome  youn^^  for- 
eigner V  resumed  Mr.  Sutherland.  "  You  have  not 
fallen  in  love  with  him,  have  you,  Lucy  ?  Even  Ilubin- 
Bon  was  struck  by  his  remarkabh;  g(jod  luoks." 

"Ko,"  said  Lucy,  quietly ;  "I  have  not  fallen  In 
love  with  hhn.  Are  you  aware  he  is  here  almost  every 
day  ?" 

"  So  Hobinson  tells  mo.  It  appears  he  has  the  good 
taste  to  admire  the  place,  and  comes  here  to  smoke, 
and  read  novels.  He  is  a  gentleman  of  learned  leisure, 
it  seems,  and  walks  to  and  fro,  smoking  for  a  living." 

"  It  is  really  very  remarkable,"  said  Lucy.  "  Arc 
you  quite  sure  he  has  no  sinister  design,  Arthur,  in 
tiius  frequenting  the  place  ?" 

"  My  dear  girl,  what  sinister  design  can  he  have  ?" 

"  Burglary.  Your  plate-closet  is  no  common  temp- 
tation." 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  The  plate-closet  is  in  your  keep- 
ing, my  dear  Lucy,  and,  consequently,  quite  safe." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Sutherland,  rising,  "if  you  feel 
no  anxiety,  of  course  I  need  not.  But  if  I  were  you,  I 
would  ascertain  whether  this  unknown  person's  inten- 
tions ai'e  as  he  pretends." 


!! 


|.(K 


I.  '*1 


i 


2C8 


ON    THE    8CBNT. 


In  sotting  l);iclv  l)cr  chjiir,  she  tried  to  see  Eiilalie's 
fiico,  but  Eulalio  evaded  her.  The  vague  distrust  the 
Creole  had  felt  from  tlie  first  of  this  pale-faced,  low- 
voiced,  soft-stupping  cousin,  had  returned  this  morning 
stronger  than  ever  before. 

Lucy  rang  for  Rosa,  and  Arthur,  coming  over,  put 
his  arm  tenderl3^  around  his  wife's  little  waist,  and 
looked  down  at  the  face  she  strove  to  hide  by  her  fall- 
ing curls.  She  was  conscious  how  deadly  pale  she  was, 
and  how  utterly  unable  to  account  for  that  paleness. 

"  My  darling,"  Arthur  said  ;  "  you  are  ill.  Tell  me, 
love,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

She  did  not  speak,  llcr  poor  pale  face  hid  itself 
on  his  shoulder,  and  her  little  hands  clung  to  him,  in 
the  old  childish  terrified  way.  She  was  such  a  weak, 
frightened,  timid  little  thing,  this  childish  Creole  wife, 
not  a  bit  like  a  heroine,  that  she  could  only  cling  there 
mutely  in  her  distress. 

"Tell  me,  my  dearest,"  Arthur  said,  mor-  anxious- 
ly; "  tell  me  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing — nothing,"  Eulalie  reiterated,  trying  to 
steady  her  rebellious  voice,  and  keep  down  her 
frightened  heart-beating ;  "  don't  ask  me,  Arthur ;  it  is 
nothing — it  is  nothing," 

lie  looked  down  at  the  clinging  hands,  all  he 
could  see  for  the  tangled  shower  of  curls,  and  some- 
thing missing  on  one  of  them,  struck  him. 


ON    THE    SCENT, 


209 


"  Wlicrc  is  your  ring,  Eiiliilie — the  ring  I  gave  you 
last  ?" 

She  liurricdly  snatclicd  away  her  hand,  and  hid  it 
in  the  folds  of  hL.i-  dress.  It  was  a  child's  act,  but  sho 
was  little  more  than  a  cliild  in  all  things.  Arthur 
Btood  in  wonder;  the  ring  had  been  his  latest  gift  on 
her  birthday — a  cluster  diamond  his  paternal  grand- 
mother had  worn — an  heir-loom  in  the  family,  newly 
set. 

"  Have  you  lost  your  ring,  Eulalie  V  he  said,  with 
a  feeling  of  annoyance,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Yes." 

Lucy,  lingering  near  the  door,  heard  this  answer, 
and  passed  out.  Rosa  was  coming  in,  and  Mr.  Suther 
land,  looking  umisuidly  grave,  lifted  his  wife's  face 
resolutely.  He  could  feel  her  cold  and  trembling ;  and 
some  shadovy  distrust,  some  cold,  creeping  feeling  that 
all  was  not  right,  chilled  him.  He  could  see  her  face 
was  colorless  as  that  of  a  dead  woman's,  and  her  eyes 
wild  with  nameless  dread. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  He  drew  her  gently  out  of 
the  room,  his  fa'^o  troubled  and  perplexed.  Lucy  saw 
him,  half  leadiii;^'  her  up-stairs,  and  a  cold,  gratiHed 
smile  passed  over  h"r  thin  lij)s. 

"  Your  torments  are  only  commencing,  Arthur," 
she  said,  softly  ;  "  only  commencing.  The  pain  you 
have  wrung  my  heart   with — the  jealous  pain   that 


I 


Ml  'i 


»■ 

Ha 


;  m 


1 


i 


270 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


I 


exceeds  all  other  earthly  torture — you  shall  feel  in 
year  turn.  Mhio  was  hidden,  no  living  soul  mocked 
me  witli  their  pity  ;  yours  shall  be  known  to  the  wide 
world/' 

An  hour  after,  Lucy  left  the  house,  in  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  took  the  road  to  the  village.  It  was  a  hot 
daj — the  sun  blazing  like  a  wheel  of  fire  in  the  serene 
blue  sky,  and  the  young  l;idy  walked  very  leisurely. 
It  was  a  l<jng  walk,  but  she  was  neither  flushed  nor 
dusty  when  she  reached  St.  Mary's,  and  astonished 
Mrs.  AVeldon  by  her  unlooked-for  appearance. 

"Dear  me.  Miss  Sutlicrlaiid,"  cried  that  good 
woman,  rising  in  surprise  ;  "  who'd  have  thought  it. 
Walk  right  up  stairs;  the  girls  are  there,  and  will  bo 
riglit  glad  to  see  you  !     Beautiful  day,  isn't  it?" 

"  Very  beautiful,"  replied  Miss  Sutherland ;  "  so 
much  so,  tluit  it  tempted  me  out ;  and  feeling  very 
thirsty,  after  so  long  a  walk,  I  thought  I  would  stop  in 
here  and  trouble  you  for  a  glass  of  water." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  Miss  Sutherland.  Come  into 
the  parlor,  and  sit  down,  and  I  will  fetch  it  up  directly. 
And  how  is  that  pretty  dear,  Mrs.  Arthur  T' 

"  Very  well  indeed." 

Mrs.   AVeldon   threw   open   the    parlor   door,   and 


announced  Miss  Sutherland  to  an  audience  of  one. 
one  of  the  girls  occupied  it,  and  she  sat  embroid- 
ering a  handkerchief,  and  singing  softly  to  herself  at 


Only 


I 


a 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


071 


one  of  the  windows.  She  stopped  in  her  song,  and 
arose,  looking  quite  as  much  surprised  as  her  motlier 
liad  done. 

"Don't  disturb  yourself,  Miss  Sophie,"  said  the 
young  lady,  graciously,  holding  out  her  gloved  hand. 
*'  I  came  in  for  a  drink,  and  your  good  mother  would 
fetch  me  up.     I  hope  I  see  j'^ou  well." 

"  Yery  well.  Miss  Sutherland,"  said  Sophie,  rather 
fluttered  ;  "  pray  sit  down." 

"  I  thought  the  girls  were  here,"  said  Mrs.  Weldon, 
as  her  visitor  sank  gracefully  into  a  seat. 

"  No,  mamma,  they're  all  out.  Shall  I  go  and  look 
for  them  ?" 

"By  no  means,"  interrupted  Miss  Sutherland, 
hastily.  "  I  shall  be  going  in  a  few  moments.  How 
pretty  that  is,  Sop] lie — is  it  for  your  wedding  ?" 

Sophie  blushed  beautifully,  as  she  handed  the 
handkerchief  to  Miss  Sutherland  for  inspection. 

"  I  heard  some  rumor  of  your  marriage  the  other 
day,"  continued  the  young  lady.  "  Who  is  the  happy 
man,  Sophie?" 

A  man,  smoking  on  the  veranda,  walked  past  the 
open  window,  as  she  spoke,  and  the  peach  bloom 
turned  to  brightest  crimson  on  pretty  Sopliie's  face. 

"  Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  Lucy  Sutherland,  really 
surprised.  '^  Is  it  possible  you  are  going  to  be  mariied 
to  Mr.  Bcnoir  ?" 


Ill 


m 


273 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


S' 


"Hush,  Miss  Sutherland,"  cried  Sophie,  hastily, 
"  here  is  mother  !" 

Mrs.  Weldon  re-entered  with  a  goblet  of  lemonade, 
Jind,  excusing  herself,  left  her  visitor  with  her 
daughter. 

"Mother  does  not  like  it,  you  see.  Miss  Suther- 
land," said  Sophie,  still  blushing ;  "  because  Gaston, 
poor  fellow,  was  only  a  Troubadour  when  he  came 
here,  and  has,  she  says,  no  visible  means  of  support. 
Mother  suspects  I  don't  know  what.  She  docs  not  like 
poor  Gaston,  and  she  v,  ill  not  give  her  consent." 

"  Oh,  then,  you  arc  engaged  to  Mr.  Benoir  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sutherland ;  but  it  is  a  secret  yet,  you 
know." 

"  You  may  trust  me,  Sophie.  "Why  is  it  your 
mother  suspects  him  o^  not  being  all  right  ?" 

"Well,  Miss  Sutherland,  you  see,  when  Gaston 
came  here  first,  a  few  weeks  ago,  he  was  poor — that  is, 
he  was  like  the  rest  of  the  Troubadours,  dependent  on 
their  concerts  for  support.  I  know  that,  because  he 
told  me  so  himself.  But  of  late  he  seems  to  have 
come  into  a  fortune.  lie  has  lots  and  lots  of  money, 
and  spends  it  like  water.  lie  has  given  me  and  all  tlie 
girls  the  loveliest  presents,  and  he  wears  a  splendid 
diamond  riug !" 

"A  what?"  lucy  cried,  sliarply. 

"  A  beautiful  diamond  ring.  Miss  Sutherland,  that 


ON    TUB    ISC  EN  T. 


273 


must  havji  cost  hundreds  of  dollaiv  ^Uid  lie  won't 
give  any  account  of  all  tliis  sudden  wealth.  That's 
what's  the  trouble.  lie  only  laughs,  and  chucks  nic 
under  the  chin,  and  tells  me  that  he  has  found  the 
goose  that  lays  the  golden  eggs.  Now,  Miss  Suther- 
land, mother  naturally  doesn't  like  this,  and  she  sus- 
pects him  to  be  all  sorts  of  horrors,  and  won't  give 
her  consent ;  and  I  am  just  as  wretched  as  ever  I  can 
be." 

Here  Miss  Weldon  applied  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes ;  and  Lucy  Sutherland,  w^ith  a  strange  eagerness, 
watched  the  graceful  figure  of  the  elegant  lounger  on 
the  veranda. 

"  And  he  refuses  an  explanation  to  your  mother 
also  r 

"  Yes.  lie  is  too  proud  and  high-siiirited  to  stoop 
to  explanation  where  his  word  is  doubted.  He  says 
that  it  ought  to  1)e  sufficient  that  he  tells  us  lie  came 
by  his  wealth  honorably  and  fairly  ;  and  mother  ought 
to  be  glad  to  get  a  rich  husljand  for  her  daughter, 
without  hauling  him  over  the  coals  as  to  how  he 
obtained  his  wealth.  And  so,  Miss  Sutherland,  our 
marriage  is  put  oil ;  and  I  really  don't  know  when  it 
will  take  ])lace." 

Miss  Sutherland  looked  at  outspoken  Sophie  with 
a  thoughtful  face. 

"Do  yuu  know   much  <>1'  IIjc   previous  history  uf 


I 


t\ 


1  ^  i  -^"l 


m  :.1 


m 


ifii 


] 


)*t 


:l      ^il 


-'Z^ 


t 


«■ 


274 


ON    TIIIC    SCENT. 


tills  lover  of  yours,  Sophie  ?  Purdon  my  seeming 
iiiqiiisitiveness ;  but  I  like  you  so  nuicli,  my  dear 
Sophie,  that  I  wpeak  only  for  your  good." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Sutherland,"  said  pocr  Sophie, 
gratefully.  "  I  am  sure  you  are  very  kind.  ]S"o,  I 
don't  know  very  much  about  Gaston,  except  that  he 
was  born  and  brought  up  in  Louisiana,  somewhere,  of 
French  j)arents,  and  came  North,  when  qnite  a  boy,  to 
seek  his  fortune.  He  lias  been  knocking  rouiul  the 
M'orld,  he  says,  ever  since,  until  he  has  grown  tired  of 
it,  poor  fellow  !  and  now  he  wants  to  settle  down,  with 
me  for  his  wife.  I  am  sure  I  love  him  with  all  my 
heart,  <ind  would  marry  him  and  trust  hiin,  and  be 
liapj)y  as  the  day  is  long,  if  mamma  wasn't  so  disagree- 
able about  it.  That's  all  I  know  of  him.  Miss  Suther- 
land ;  and  I  am  sure  it  is  satisfactory  enough." 

Miss  Sutherland  smiled,  with  something  between 
pity  and  contempt  for  the  simple  speaker  in  her  face. 
But  the  girl  was  so  earnest  and  womanly,  in  her  perfect 
trust  and  faith  in  the  mim  she  loved,  that  she  almost 
hated  her  at  the  moment,  too.  Before  she  could  speak, 
the  door  opened,  and  the  subject  of  all  this  talk,  tired 
of  lounging  and  smoking  in  the  hot  sunslune,  came  in, 
and  bowed  with  well-bred  ease  to  his  lady-love's 
visitor. 

Miss  Sutherland  retnrned  the  gentleman's  bow  with 
\incon»:?iOii  f<):viia!it>  for  her  :  ^verhaps,  independent  of 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


275 


the  hidden  motive  that  made  her  wish  to  propitiate 
him,  independent  of  vlie  interest  she  must  have  felt  in 
him  had  he  been  ugly  as  Culiban,  she  was  no  more  in- 
sensible to  the  power  of  his  remarkable  beauty  than 
the  weakest  of  her  sex. 

Mr.  Benoir  seated  liimself  at  one  of  the  open 
windows,  talking  in  an  easy,  oif-hand  strain,  jus  a 
gentleman  addressing  his  equals.  lie  ran  the  lingers 
of  an  aristocratically  small  and  sluipcly  hand  through 
his  dark' hair  while  he  conversed,  and  the  flash  of  a 
diamond  ring  dazzled  Lucy  Sutherland's  eyes  ;  a  ring 
she  knew  well — that  had  been  worn  by  line  ladies  of 
the  house  of  Sutherland  befoi'c  any  one  there  present 
was  born — that  had  been  Arthur's  bii'thday-gift  to  his 
false-hearted  wife.  What  further  proof  was  needed  of 
her  inconstancy  than  this  ? 

"We  don't  see  you  often  in  Bt.  Mary's,  Miss 
Sutherland,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  in  the  course  of  liia  free- 
and-easy  remarkg. 

*'  No,"  said  Mis^  jlf^fe/land,  composedly,  '  '  rdl/ 
so  often  as  we  see  yon  at  Ma|/i^'/V^ood," 

"Ah,  yes!"  returned  Mr.  i^n//if,/<^rolessly  iTiing 
the  hand  on  whicii  the  diamon<^  0}iMifti\  .  ■  con* 
spicuously  thi'ougli  his  hair.  "  I  do  ifmft»**i^  fli.it 
cliarminif  houic  of  noui's  a  u'ood  dtvu.  A  max  *ili<^''f;t 
place,  Miss  SuthorLuul,  and  an  honor  to  its  owner. 
Mr.  Sutherland  has  my  best  thanks  for  his  kindness  in 


*,•' 


J   >i 


I 


276 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


\: 


admitting  strangers  within  his  gates.  Personally,  1 
have  not  tlie  pleasure  of  knowing  him.  If  I  had,  I 
should  cxj^rcss  my  thanks  in  person." 

"  Mr.  Sutherland  W\\\  take  them  for  granted,"  re- 
plied Miss  Sutherland,  coldly,  rising  as  she  spoke ;  her 
Sutherland  pride  rebelling  against  this  familiarity. 
"  Maplewood  is  open  to  all  who  choose  to  enter. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Sophie ;  good-morning,  Mr.  Benoir." 

Just  deigning  to  bend  her  head  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  late  Troubadour's  profourid  bow,  tlie  young 
lady  left  the  hotel,  and  Logan  her  homeward  route. 
Mr.  Benoir  watched  her  out  of  sight  with  an  odd  little 
smile  on  his  lips. 

"A  sharji  young  woman  that,  Sophie,"  he  said; 
"  an  uncommonly  sharp  young  woman.  What  brought 
her  here  this  morning?" 

Miss  AVcldon  explained. 

"  Ah,  for  a  drink !  Is  she  a  grea^  friend  of  yours, 
Sophie  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  I"  replied  Sophie.  "  She  is  a  great 
deal  too  proud.  She  has  not  been  in  our  house  for 
years,  I  think,  until  that  day  you  met  her  here  fir^t." 

"  And  what  brought  her  here  that  day  f 

"  To  see  Fanny — she  had  a  sore  tliroat." 

"  Ilem-m-m !"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  in  a  musing  tone. 
"  That  was  the  day  after  Mi's.  Arthur  Sutherland's 
fainting-fit  ?" 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


277 


'8 


"  Yes." 

The  odd  little  smile  was  on  Mr.  Benoir's  face  again. 

"  A  sharp  girl,"  he  repeated  ;  "  a  very  sliarji  girl ! 
Don't  you  think,  Sophie,  she  saw  my  diamond  ring  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  she  did,"  said  Miss  Weldon  ;  "  it  was 
easy  enough  seen,  goodness  knows  !" 

Mr.  Benoir  got  up,  whistling,  and  went  out  again 
on  the  veranda.  Miss  Sutherland  was  already  out  ol' 
sight,  slowly  as  she  walked,  nmsing  ^^rofoundly.  She 
was  on  the  scent  now — nothing  should  stop  her  until  she 
had  hunted  her  prey  down. 

"  To-morrow  night  they  meet,"  she  thought,  as  she 
walked  leisurely  toward  the  home  she  vs  ^  trying  to 
make  desolate.  "  To-morrow  night  they  meet.  Very 
well,  Mr.  Benoir,  I  shall  be  present  at  that  interview, 
too." 

It  was  nearly  mid-day  when  she  renched  the  house. 
As  she  entered  the  parlor,  tired  and  a  little  hot,  she 
found  her  cousin  Arthur  lying  on  a  sofa  with  a  book. 
There  was  an  unusual  gravity  in  his  face.  Lucy  saw, 
as  he  looked  up  at  her  entrance,  anxiety  about  his  wife. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  village,  Lucy f  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  cousin,  dropping  into  a  seat,  "  and  I 
am  nearly  tired  to  death.     How  is  Eululle'f 

"Not  very  well,  I  am  afraid.  She  is  lying  down  in 
her  room.  Lucy,  what  is  the  matter  with  Eulalie 
lately  ?" 


t 


I 


i^i 


'1'; 


U 


% 


2TS 


ON    'HIE    SCENT. 


% 


ITc  had  to  iisk  that  question.  He  had  thought  and 
pcrploxcd  liiniself  over  the  matter  so  long  in  secret 
that  tlic  words  forenjd  tlieuisolves  from  liis  lips,  almost 
in  sj)ite  of  liimsolf.  lie  got  up  in  a  feverish  sort  of 
way,  and  took  to  pacing  up  and  down  the  room.  Miss 
{Sutherland's  blue  eyes  gleamed  pale  flame  as  she 
watclied    him,    sitting   umnoved,  with  folded   hands. 

"  She  says  herself  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  Can 
you  not  take  her  word  for  it  ?" 

"  Slie  says  that  because  she  does  not  wisli  to  make 
ni(!  uneasy,  but  something  is  the  matter,  I  am  con- 
vinced. Ever  since  that  night  of  the  conceit,  on  which 
blio  fainte<l  so  suddenly,  I  have  noticed  a  most  unac- 
countable jliange." 

"  So  have  I,''  said  Lucy,  "  ever  since  that  night. 
What  do  you  suppt  so  was  the  cause  of  her  fainting  ?" 

"  The  heat,  of  course — "what  else  ?" 

Lucy  gave  him  a  strange  look  that  brought  her 
cousin  to  an  abrupt  halt  before  her. 

"  Lucy,  what  do  you  mean  ?    Was  it  not  the  heat  ?" 

"  Very  likely.  I  have  said  nothing  to  the  con- 
trary." 

"Xo,  you  only  looked  it !  Lucy,  if  you  know  what 
ails  my  poor  girl,  tell  me,  for  Heaven's  sake  !" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Lucy,  slowly,  "  and  what  I 
suspect  is  my  o^vn  secret." 


■ 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


271) 


"What  you  siv-ipcct!"  Arthur  repeated,  turning 
very  pale.     "  Lucy,  Lucy,  what  do  you  incan  ?" 

"  Let  me  ask  you  a  question,  Artliur.  I  heard  your 
wife  tell  you  this  morning  she  had  lost  her  ring — the 
diamond  you  gave  her.     ILis  she  found  it  yet  ?" 

"No." 

Lucy  dropped  her  blue  eyes,  and  patted  restlessly 
on  the  carpet.  Arthur  stood  before  her,  pale  and 
anxious. 

"JS'O,"  he  repeated,  "she  has  not  found  it.     Why?" 

Miss  Sutherland's  reply  was  jinother  cpicstion. 

"  Artlmr,  do  you  remember  the  man  we  were  speak" 
ing  of  at  breakfast  V 

"The  man?     No — what  man?" 

"  His  name  is  Gaston  Benoir — the  remarkably 
handsome  yonng  foreigner — he  is  from  Cuba,  I  be- 
lieve— who  prowls  about  Maplewood  continually.  You 
remember  we  were  speaking  of  him  at  breakfast — that 
is,  you  and  I  were,  for  Eulalie  got  up  and  stood  by  the 
window." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"Well,"  continued  Lucy,  with  torturing  delibera- 
tion, "I  was  in  St.  Mary's  this  morning,  and,  feeling 
warm  and  thirsty  after  my  walk,  I  stopi^ed  into  Mrs. 
Weldon's  for  a  drink." 

"  Well." 

"  Mr.   Benoir  is  a   boarder   there — luis  been   ever 


\H 


m 


w 


\ 


!S. 


>' 


:■  n 

If 


II   f 


i    1 

!      1 

!        1 
I       \ 

280 


ON    THE    SCENT. 


.    % 


i 


m 


\ 


I 


I 


fiirico  lie  cm  no  licrc  first  (the  nif^ht  of  the  concert  at 
wliicli  Eiilalie  fiiinted),  and  he  chanced  to  enter  the 
room  I  was  in  talking  to  one  of  Mrs.  AVeldon's  daugh- 
ters." 

"Well,"  reiterated  Mr.  Sutherland,  never  taking 
his  eyes  olT  her  face. 

"  Miss  Weldon,  without  asking  permission,  took  the 
oiTensive  lil)erty  of  introducing  him  to  me.  lie  is,  as 
I  ]ia\G  said,  exceedingly^  handsome,  gentlemanly  in 
manners,  and  altogether  superior  to  his  station.  IIo 
was  dressed  in  the  height  o(  the  fashion,  and  wore  on 
the  little  fhiger  of  his  left  hand  a  diamoiid  ring.  Ar- 
thur, it  was  th.e  ring  youv  wife  has  lost !" 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  The  shifting  blue  eyes  of 
Lucy  Sutherland  still  fixed  anywhere  except  on  her 
cousin's  face,  as  she  went  hurriedly  on : 

"Perhaps  Eiilalie,  when  last  out  in  the  grounds 
walking,  dropped  it,  and  this  man  found  it  there.  Ask 
her,  Arthur,  if  she  wore  it  the  last  time  she  was  out ; 
for  I  am  certain  it  is  her  ring  Mr.  Benoir  had  on  his 
fi 


nirer 


?j 


She  was  up,  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  as  a 
pretext  for  uot  looking  at  him  ;  but  she  knew  for  all 
how  stern  and  palo  he  was  standing. 

"  AYliere  did  you  say  this  man  was  from  ?"  was  his 
first  question. 


ON    TUE    SCENT. 


281 


bis 


"From  Cuba,  but  a  native  of  L<niisiana,  Miss  Wel- 
don  told  me." 

Atraiii  tbcre  was  a  blank  pause. 

"  You  arc  sure  it  was  Eulalie's  ring  ?"  Arthur  said, 
at  last. 

"  As  sure  as  I  can  be.  There  could  hardly  be  two 
BO  much  alike.  What  surprises  me  is  the  man's  ef- 
frontery in  wearing  it  so  openly,  if  he  found  it,  lus  he 
must  have  done." 

''lie  made  no  attempt  to  hide  it  from  you  ^" 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  rather  anxious  I 
should  see  it." 

Again  there  was  a  blank  stillness.  Again  Mr. 
Sutherland  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Bid  Miss  Weldon  tell  you  anything  more  about 
this  nuui  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  She  was  full  of  the  subject,  and  could 
talk  of  nothing  else.  His  handsome  face  luis  bewitched 
her,  it  seems;  and  the  scheme  of  the  universe  holds  no 
one  for  her  but  this  dark  Louisianian.  He  is,  she  tells 
me,  a  perfect  mystery  to  every  one.  lie  came  to  tho 
village  with  the  rest  of  those  minstrels,  as  poor  as  a 
church-mouse;  but  when  they  were  departing,  he  de- 
clined going  with  them.  lie  remained  here ;  and  a 
golden  shower  seems,  in  some  niysterions  manner,  to 
fall  upon  him.  All  of  a  sudden,  and  unaccountaI)ly  to 
every  oije,  his  pockets  were  fuU  of  money,  his  shabby- 


t 


''  !■■ 


■:    r! 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^O 
/^/.<^ 


V 


.v^ 


A 


^ 


1.0 


1.1 


1^  1^ 


|25 
2.0 

L8 


1.25    |||.4    1 1.6 

< 

6"     

► 

V] 


vl 


» 


o 


7. 


/ 


/«^ 


Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


^ 


s^ 


\ 


:\ 


\ 


^ 


V 


6^ 


'^''^  '* 


.    6^ 


^m 


ON    THE    aCENT. 


genteel  garments  replaced  by  the  finest  and  best ;  and 
he  spends  gold  like  water,  Miss  Weldon  says,  and 
makes  herself  and  her  sisters  the  most  expensive  pres- 
ents. The  diamond  ring  astonishes  her  most  of  all; 
but  I  fancy  I  can  account  for  that.  Mr.  Benoir  is  an 
unreadable  riddle." 

"  A  riddle  I  shall  endeavor  to  read,  nevertheless!" 
exclaimed  Arthur,  with  sudden  resolution.  "  I  shall 
have  a  look  at  that  ring  he  wears,  and  find  out  before 
the  sun  sets  if  it  is  the  birthday-gift  I  gave  my  wife." 

lie  left  the  room  hastily.  Lucy,  standing  by  the 
window,  saw  him,  five  minutes  after,  riding  down  the 
winding  avenue  where  the  shading  maple*  waved. 


BROUaHT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


2m 


» 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BROUGHT  TO  A  RECKONING. 

R.  SUTHERLAND  rode  in  a  very  unde- 
cided manner  toward  the  village  of  St. 
Mary's.  He  had  cantered  down  the  avenue 
rapidly  in  the  first  impulse  of  the  moment ; 
but,  a  little  way  beyond  the  gates,  he  checked  his  speed 
irresolutely.  He  was  disturbed  as  he  had  never  been  dis- 
turbed before  in  his  life ;  and  yet,  by  what  ?  By  a  num- 
ber of  odd  coincidences  that,  after  all,  might  mean  noth- 
ing. His  wife  had  lost  her  ring,  and  Lucy  saw  it,  or 
one  like  it,  on  the  finger  of  this  \Gvy  handsome  young 
Southerner.  The  man  might  be  a  gambler.  A  lucky 
throw  of  the  dice,  a  fortunate  game  of  cards,  might  ac- 
count for  his  sudden  prosperity  and  his  wearing  dia- 


mond rings. 


There  might  be  other  rings  like  that  his 


wife  had  lost — like  enough,  at  least,  to  deceive  Lucy. 
He  had  caused  it  to  be  set  in  a  fanciful  device  of  liis 
own  that  he  could  not  fail  to  know ;  but  the  more  ho 
thought  of  it,  the  more  he  felt  convinced  that  there 
had  been  a  mistake.     And  even  should  there  not  be, 


t 


r 


I 


2Si 


BROUOUT    TO    A    ItEGKONINQ, 


Eulalie  might  have  lost  it  somewhere  on  this  very  road, 
and  Mr.  Benoir,  finding  it  there,  might  wear  it  openly, 
in  ignorance  of  its  ow^ner.  This  latter  surmise,  how- 
ever, was  Iiardly  prohable.  Diamond  rings  are  not 
lost  and  found  like  glass  heads  every  day,  and  no  sign 
made.  The  ring  must  be  his  own,  and  Lucy  had  made 
a  mistake. 

But  Mr.  Sutherland's  course  of  reasoning  did  not 
satisfy  him,  somehow.  Lucy's  words  kept  ringing  in 
his  ears — "  Late  of  Cuba,  and  born  in  Louisiana."  His 
wife  was  late  of  Cuba,  and  born  in  Louisiana.  IIow 
strangely  Lucy  had  looked  at  him  !  IIow  marked  the 
tone  of  her  voice  had  been !  What  had  caused  his 
wife  to  faint  on  the  night  of  the  concert  ?  "  Not  the 
heat,"  Lucy  said  ;  and  on  that  night  she  had  first  met 
this  mysterious  foreigner,  "  late  of  Cuba,"  whose  beauty 
set  every  one  talking.  Arthur  roused  himself  with  a 
start  and  a  shock,  horrified  at  himself  for  the  course 
his  thoughts  were  drifting. 

"  What  a  jealous  brute  I  am  getting  to  be !"  he 
thought,  "  when  trifles  light  as  air  run  away  with  my 
judgment  in  this  fashion !  My  darling  girl  is  over- 
nervous,  over-sensitive,  and  acts  strangely,  or  appears 
to  do  so,  without  knowing  it.  What  if  this  man  does 
happen  to  be  a  compatriot  of  hers  ?  What  if  he  does 
wear  a  ring  something  like  that  she  has  lost  ?  Wliat  if 
ho  is  fond  of  spending  his  time  loitering  purposelessly 


BnOTJGUT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


285 


about  Maplewood  ?  How  ia  she  to  be  connected  with 
that  ?  I  am  an  idiot,  and  my  poor  little  baby- wife  is 
the  dearest,  and  truest,  and  best  of  womankind !" 

Mr.  Sutherland  rode  into  St.  Mary's  and  straight 
up  to  the  Weldon  House.  He  was  no  such  unusual 
visitor  there  as  Miss  Lucy,  and  good  Mi's.  Weldon 
greeted  his  entrance  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  had 
had  the  run  of  the  house  from  his  boyhood,  and  rarely 
visited  the  village  without  dropping  in.  His  present 
call  was  of  the  sliortest ;  for  the  gentleman  he  was  in 
search  of  was  not  in.  He  learned  by  n  scries  of  indi- 
rect questions  that  Mr.  Bcnoir  had  taken  Miss  Sophie, 
much  against  her  (Mrs.  Woldon's)  will,  out  driving,  and 
would  probably  not  return  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 
And  having  got  on  the  subject,  Mrs.  AVeldon  poured 
into  Mr.  Sutherland's  ears  the  story  of  Mr.  Benoir'B 
wooing,  and  her  distress  thereat. 

"  I  must  have  a  look  at  this  modern  Fortunatus, 
Mrs.  "Weldon,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "  for  pretty  Sophie's 
sake ;  and  then  I  will  be  better  able  to  give  you  an 
opinion  in  the  matter.  If  I  drop  in  about  seven  this 
evening  am  I  likely  to  see  him  ?" 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  see  him,  Mr.  Sutherland.  Seven 
is  our  tea-hour,  and  Mr.  Benoir  is  as  regular  as  clock- 
work generally  at  his  meals.  It's  very  good  of  you, 
I'm  sure,"  Mr3.  Weldon  said,  gratefully,  "  to  put  yom*- 


11 


■Tf^ 


286 


DROUOUT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


self  to  any  trouble  on  our  account,  but  I  do  feel  dread- 
fully worried  about  my  Sophie." 

"  Pray  don't  mention  it,"  said  Arthur,  feeling  very 
hypocritical.  "  I  shall  look  in  without  fail,  Mrs.  Wel- 
don,  on  my  way  home  this  evening." 

Mr.  Sutherland  rode  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  who 
insisted,  as  Arthur  knew  he  would,  on  his  remaining  to 
dinner.  It  was  not  a  very  easy  task  to  get  away  almost 
immediately  after  that  ceremony  ;  but  pleading  a  press- 
ing engagement,  he  made  his  escape,  and  set  off  at  a 
quick  car.ter  back  to  St.  Mary's. 

The  August  sunset  was  ablaze  in  the  skies,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  like  amber  mist,  as  he  dismounted  be- 
fore the  hotel.  Standing  in  this  amber  mist,  as  a  glori- 
fied saint  in  a  painted  window,  Mr.  Benoir  smoked  his 
after-tea  cigar,  and  watched  the  few  passers-by  up  and 
down  the  quiet  country  street.  Darkly  splendid,  with 
the  well-bread  nonchalance  of  a  prince  of  the  blood 
royal,  the  ex-Troubadour  stood  and  looked  at  Mr.  Suth- 
erland, as  he  alighted  and  stood  before  him.  Mr. 
Sutherland  met  his  glance,  recognized  hira  in  a 
moment,  and  coolly  addressed  him  at  once. 

"  Mr.  Benoir,  I  beHeve  ?" 

"  At  Monsieur's  service,"  replied  Mr.  Benoir,  re- 
moving his  cigar,  and  bowing  politely. 

Mr.  Sutherland  presented  his  card.  Mr.  Benoir 
bowed  again. 


1 1 


BROUGHT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


287 


re- 


loir 


"  My  gardener  tells  me,  Mr.  Benoir,  you  requested 
permission  some  time  ago  to  visit  Maple  wood.  Per- 
mit me  to  say  my  place  is  open  to  you  whenever  it 
Bhall  please  you  to  go  tlicre." 

"Did  he  dismount,  I  wonder,  to  tell  me  this," 
thought  Mr.  Benoir ;  but  aloud  he  said  :  "  A  thousand 
thanks,  Mr.  Sutherland.  You  who  are  so  fortunate  as 
to  dwell  in  Paradise  can  afford  poor  fellows  out  in  the 
cold,  like  mj^self,  a  few  hours'  bliss  in  your  Eden.  I 
have  traveled  a  good  deal  over  this  big  world,  and  I 
have  rarely  seen  a  more  cheering  spot  than  this  New 
England  home  of  yours." 

He  raised  his  half-smoked  cigar  as  he  spoke,  and 
knocked  off  the  ashes  with  the  little  finger  of  his  left 
hand.  On  that  finger  a  diamond  ring  blazed — a  ring 
there  was  no  mistaking — the  gift  he  had  last  given  his 
wife. 

Arthur  Sutherland  felt  himself  euddenly  turning 
cold  and  white.  A  horrible  feeling — a  creeping,  shud- 
dering dread,  vague  and  unshapely  as  the  flickering 
shadows  the  trees  cast  on  the  ground — benum.bed  every 
sense  for  a  moment.  His  wife's  ring  worn  by  this 
man  !  He  could  not  get  beyond  that.  All  the  sophis- 
tries of  losing  and  finding  va^iished  into  thin  air — the 
fact  alone  remained  and  stunned  him. 

"  Monsieur  does  not  look  well,"  said  Mr.  Benoir, 
"  I  hope  no  sudden  illness — ^" 


r 


288 


BROUGHT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


lie  (lid  not  iinisli  the  sentence.  Arthur  Sutherland 
had  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met.  The  two  men 
stood  staring  at  each  other  for  fully  a  minute,  and  all 
social  hypocrisies  dropped,  as  we  drop  a  mask.  The 
insolent  smile  on  the  face  of  one — the  pale,  stern 
inquiry  in  the  face  of  the  other — spoke  as  plainly  a£ 
words. 

The  left  hand  of  Mr.  Benoir  toyed  carelessly  with 
his  watch-chain,  and  the  last  red  rays  of  the  sunset 
flamed  back  from  the  gem  on  his  finger.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  hide  it,  and  its  flashing  radiance  seemed  to 
blind  the  gazer.  Arthur's  eyes  fell  upon  it  once  more, 
as  if  even  yet  he  could  not  believe  the  evidence  of  his 
senses. 

"  Monsieur  regards  my  ring,"  said  Mr.  Benoir, 
complacently ;  "  I  trust  he  admires  it.  It  is  the  recent 
gift  of  a  very  dear  friend,  and  worth  a  duke's  ransom, 
I  believe !" 

Mr.  Sutherland,  fooling  how  ghastly  pale  he  must 
be,  turned  away  frum  that  triumphant  face,  whose  ex- 
ultation was  unconcealed,  remounted  his  horse,  and 
rode  swiftly  away. 

"  Adieu,  Monsieur !"  a  mocking  voice  called  after 
him,  but  he  neither  heard  nor  answered.  He  never 
stopped  to  think  how  strange  his  conduct  must  seem — 
they  understood  each  other,  and  both  knew  it. 

The  rosy  twilight  had  faded,  and    the    glorious 


land 
men 
i  all 
Tho 
stern 
ly  a£ 

with 
junset 
ideno 
[led  to 

more, 
of  bis 

Benoir, 
recent 
[ansom, 

must 
)se  ex- 
je,  and 

)d  after 
never 
Iseem — 

rlorious 


BltOUGnr    TO    A    RECKONINO. 


280 


Aup^st  moon  flooded  field  and  forest  with  her  palo 
radiance.  The  tall  trees  cast  gliostly  shadows  over  the 
white,  dusty,  deserted  road,  the  night  air  was  sweet 
with  the  forest-odors,  and  the  frogs  held  concerts  in 
the  slimy  pools  all  along  the  wayside.  The  still  beauty 
of  the  night  recalled  the  memory  of  that  other  night, 
long,  long  ago,  when  he  and  Philip  Sutherland  had 
driven  along  here  in  the  moonlight  to  see  Eulalie 
Kohan  for  the  first  time.  "Would  it  have  been  ])etter 
if  they  had  never  known  that  night — never  known  tho 
dark  beauty  which  had  bewitched  them  both  ?  lie  had 
never  asked  himself  that  question  before,  and  his  heart 
rebelled  against  it  now.  No,  no ;  better  to  have  known 
and  loved  her,  better  to  have  trusted  and  taken  her  to 
his  heart,  and  been  happier,  it  seem'd  to  him,  than 
man  ever  was  before,  than  to  have  gone  on,  calmly 
content,  with  some  other  woman,  about  whom  no 
secrecy  or  mystery  ever  hung — Isabel  Yansell,  for 
instance. 

It  was  very  rarely  he  thought  of  his  old  love  now. 
He  was  so  supremely  blessed  in  his  beautiful  wife  and 
child,  that  he  had  no  room  in  his  heart  even  for  the 
mem.ory  of  the  girl  he  had  once  loved.  But  she  arose 
before  him  to-night  in  the  misty  moonlight,  like  a  pale, 
reproachful  ghost ;  and  the  old  remorse  he  had  been 
wont  to  feel  came  back  like  a  pang. 

As  Maplewood  drew  near,  Mr.  Sutherland  paused 
13 


too 


DROUailT    TO    A    REGKONINO. 


h 


i 


f  I 


i  1 


- 


in  the  furious  «allop  lie  had  kept  up  unconsciously  ever 
since  leaving  the  village.  lie  had  thought  of  the  re- 
cent interview  in  a  stunned,  lost  kind  of  way,  ono 
phrase  ringing  and  ringing  in  his  ears,  even  while  ho 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  other  things,  as  if  it  were  a 
dismal  accompaniment.  "The  recent  gift  of  a  very 
dear  friend."  "  Of  a  very  dear  friend  I"  Who  did 
this  insolent  stranger  mean  by  that,  when  speaking  of 
his  wife's  ring?  "Late  of  Cuba!" — had  Eulalie,  or 
Eulalie's  grandfather,  ever  known  him  in  Cnl)a? 
"  Born  in  Louisiana  1"  Could  his  wife  have  known 
him  there  ?  He  tortured  himself  with  questions  lio 
could  not  answer,  as  \\9  all  do,  and  alighted,  and 
enterer"  the  house  as  miserably  irresolute  as  his  worst 
enemy  could  wish. 

Lucy  looked  out  of  the  dining-room  as  he  passed, 
with  an  inquiring  face. 

"  We  thought  you  were  lost,  Arthur  I  Have  you 
dined?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you !  I  hope  you  have  not  waited  ? 
I  dined  with  Squire  Hazlett." 

"We  have  waited,"  said  Miss  Sutherland;  "but 
that  is  of  no  consequence.  If  you  are  going  up-stairs, 
Aithur,  pl6ase  n^k  Eulalie  if  she  is  ready  for  dinner  ?" 

"  Where  is  Eulalie  ?" 

"  In  iier  room,  I  think.  She  has  not  been  down 
this  afternoon." 


DUOUGIir    TO    A    liECKONlNG. 


201 


(ly  ever 
tho  rc- 
ly,  Olio 
liilc  lio 
were  a 
a  very 
''ho  did 
king  of 
alio,  or 

Cuba? 

known 
ions  lie 
cd,  and 
IS  worst 

passed, 

ive  you 

waited? 

;  "but 
p-stairs, 
mer  ?" 

sn  down 


Mr.  Sutlierland  ran  n p-stairs,  and  tapped  at  Eulalie's 
door. 

"  Come  in,"  the  sweet,  familiar  voice  called  ;  and 
Arthur  entered. 

The  2^rctty  room,  so  tastefully  furnished,  was  lit 
only  by  the  moonlight.  The  curtains  of  silk  and  lace 
were  drawn  back,  and  the  silvery  radiance  poured  in, 
and  lay  in  great  scpmres  of  brilliance  on  the  carpet.  On 
a  lounge  under  one  of  the  windows,  with  the  white  laco 
curtains  falling  over  her  like  a  misty  cluud,  lay  his 
wife,  in  her  elegant  dinner-dress.  She  started  up  with 
a  little  cry,  at  sight  of  him. 

"  Oh,  Arthur!  Is  it  you?  I  thought  it  was  Lucy  I 
How  long  you  have  been  away !" 

He  sat  down  beside  her  in  silence.  The  light  faded 
out  of  the  lovely  face,  and  the  pale  terror  came  back  as 
she  saw  how  grave  he  was ;  came  back  all  in  a  moment, 
mingled  with  eager,  wild  inquiry. 

Arthur  saw  the  change,  and  his  heart  smote  him — 
she  looked  so  like  a  child  who  dreads  punishment,  and 
mutely  appeals  for  pity. 

"  My  poor,  pale  darling,"  he  said,  drawing  her  to 
him,  "  my  frightened  little  girl !  Why  do  you  wear 
that  terrified  face,  of  late  ?  Surely  you  are  not  afraid 
of  me  ?'* 

"No,  Arthur,"  very  faintly. 

"  Then,  my  dearest,  why  do  you  refuse  to  tell  me 


ff^ 


!l! 


•! 


292 


DROVGIIT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


wliat  has  cliaiif^od  you  so  witliin  the  last  few  weeks  f 
"What  is  it,  Eiilalie  ?  for  you  are  changed." 

She  dropped  her  face  on  his  sliouhler,  all  her 
long,  loose  ringlets  falling  over  him  like  a  silken 
cloud. 

"  Nothing,  Arthur." 

"  Do  people  change  for  nothing,  Eulalie  s  Is  it  that 
you  love  nie  less  ?" 

"  Love  you  less !     Oh,  Arthur  I  Arthur  I*' 

lie  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  am  answered,  my  darling  I  Is  it  that  you  are 
ill  ?" 

"  !No,"  she  said,  faintly  ;  "  I  am  perfectly  well." 

"Then  you  will  not  tell  me?" 

Dead  silence.  Her  face  lay  hidden  on  his  shoulder, 
her  hands  pressed  hard  together  in  her  lap.  He  lifted 
one  of  the  little  hands  and  looked  at  it. 

"  You  have  not  found  your  ring  yet,  my  dear  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

" Do  you  know  where  you  lost  it?" 

Dead  silence  again. 

"  Answer  me,  Eulalie.  You  know  I  prize  this  ring 
very  much  as  an  heirloom  in  our  family." 

Still  silent.     Arthur's  brow  contracted. 

"  Will  you  not  answer  me,  Eulalie  ?" 

"  Arthur !  Arthur !"  she  cried  out,  in  a  sort  of  dea- 


BR  OUGHT    TO    A     HECKONINO, 


203 


^eeks ! 

ill  her 
silken 


5  it  that 


S^ou  are 

louldcr, 
0  lifted 


Ins  ring 


of  des- 


peration ;  "  don't  ask  mo  I  don't !  I  cannot  tell  you !  I 
have  lost  it,  and  I  can  tell  you  no  more  I" 

"  Then  I  can,  Eulalie.     I  have  found  it  I" 

She  started  as  if  he  had  stahbed  her. 

"  I  saw  it  to-day  on  the  hand  of  a  man  I  never  saw 
before.  My  love,  how  came  Gaston  Benoir  by  your 
ring  ?" 

Slic  gave  a  low  cry  of  despair.  All  was  over  then, 
and  the  woret  had  come. 

"  My  own  dear  wife,"  he  said,  folding  her  closer  in 
his  arms,  and  pale  to  the  lips,  with  a  dread  of — ho 
hardly  knew  what,  "  I  love  ahd  trust  you  with  my 
whole  heart ;  but  you  must  tell  me,  Eulalie,  how  this 
man  came  hy  your  ring." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  as  some  poor 
lamb  might  look  at  the  slaughterer  with  the  knife  Jit 
its  throat. 

"  Did  he  find  it,  Eulalie  V 

"No." 

"  Did  you  give  it  to  him  ?"  he  asked,  that  nameless 
Jiorror  white  in  his  face. 

"Yes,  Arthur." 

A  blank  pause  of  consternation.  Her  head  dropped 
again. 

"  Oh,  Arthur!  1  could  not  help  it !  indeed  I  could 
not!  I  am  afraid  of  that  man,  and  I  dared  not 
refuse  1" 


€ 


i  !• 


■ 

I 


i      ""i     *  ' 

!   'f^'  ifi 

il      '  1 

i        ! 

1     { 

i      1 

! 

f 

1 
1 

\ 

t 

\    j 

1,    ' 

[ 

j 

! 

1 

1 

1 

i 

i 

' 

t 

' 

i 

r               1 

1 

\    1 

1 

i^ 

u 

fJ94 


BUOUOUT    TO    A    RECKONING. 


/ 


"Afraid  of  liiin,  Eulalie  I  What  power  lias  lio 
over  you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Eulalie,  this  is  very  strange !" 

She  Raid  nothing.  She  only  clung  to  him  mutely, 
in  the  old  childish  way. 

"  Eulalie  1"  he  said,  passionately,  "you  are  driving 
me  mad !  I  must  have  an  explanation.  What  power 
has  this  man  over  you  ?" 

To  his  unspeakable  terror,  she  rose  up,  and  fell 
down  on  her  knees  before  him  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Arthur  !"  she  said,  holding  up  her  clasped  hands, 
"  for  God's  sake,  spare  me.  Oh,  I  think  I  am  the  most 
wretched  creature  that  ever  was  born ;  but  I  cannot, 
I  cannot  tell  you  the  secret  of  this  man's  power. 
If  you  cast  me  off,  if  I  die  alone,  and  miserable,  and 
broken-hearted,  I  will  have  no  cause  to  complain  ;  but 
I  can  never  tell  you.  If  you  cannot  trust  mo  any 
loi.^er,  Arthur,  or  love  me,  knowing  what  you  know, 
let  us  part  now.     Let  me  go  and  leave  you  to-night !" 

"  Leave  me,  my  precious  darling  I"  Arthur  Suther- 
land cried,  raising  her  from  the  ground  and  straining 
her  with  passionate  love  to  his  heart.  "  It  is  simply 
madness  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  No,  my  love,  nothing 
but  death  shall  ever  part  us,  in  spite  of  all  the  secrets 
in  the  world." 


BROUOUT    TO    A    RECKONINQ. 


295 


:  il 


lias  ho 


mutely, 

driving 
power 

,nd  fell 

L  hands, 
he  most 
cannot, 
power. 
)lc,  and 
11 ;  but 
no  any 

know, 
[light !" 
Suthcr- 
raining 

simply 
lothing 

secrets 


She  clung  to  h*3  neck,  in  a  joy  too  intense  for 
words. 

"  You  can  tell  me  this,  at  least,  my  love.  Is 
this  the  secret  that  kept  us  apart  before  our  mar- 
riage ?" 

"  Yes,  Arthur." 

"  Your  grandfather  knew  it  ?" 

"  Poor,  poor  grandpapa — yes." 

"  Then  I  am  content.  Tell  me  more,  Eulalie.  Did 
you  know  this  man  in  Cuba?" 

"  No." 

"  In  Louisiana,  then  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life,  until — ^" 

"  Until  when,  my  dearest  ?" 

"  Until  the  night  of  the  concert." 

Arthur  Sutherland  drew  a  long  breath  of  unspeak- 
able relief. 

"  And  yet  you  recognized  him  that  night.  How 
was  that,  Eulalie  ?" 

"  I  recognized  his  name  in  the  playbill." 

"  And  fainted  ?" 

"  Yes,  Arthur." 

There  was  silence.  Mr.  Sutherland,  sorely  puzzled, 
but  quite  relieved  of  that  horror  that  had  fallen  uj^on 
him  like  a  nightmare,  put  away  the  silky  curls  from 
the  beautiful  face  of  his  wife. 

"  My  silly  darling,  to  think  that  anything  in  this 


^i- 


mr\ 

fTfJff 

vjll 

*■    ijj 

4!" 

i     tj 

N 

i 

i 

1 

ii 
i| 

1 

1 

BBfll 


296 


BROUOHT    TO    A    REGKONINO. 


world  could  ever  part  us — to  think  I  could  ever  live 
without  you !  Never  speak  of  such  a  thing  again ! 
No  one  in  this  world  shall  ever  come  between  my  wife 
and  me !" 

She  looked  up  in  his  hopeful  face  with  eyes  un- 
speakably tender  and  mournful. 

"  My  poor  Arthur !  My  own  dear  husband ! 
Heaven  grant  it !  But,  whatever  comes,  you  will  always 
believe  that  I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  you 
alone.     You  will  believe  this,  Arthur  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dearest !  Do  not  look  at  me  with  such 
sorrowful  eyes  ;  all  will  be  well,  in  spite  of  ten  thousand 
secrets.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  now.  Let  us 
go  down-stairs ;  Lucy  is  waiting  dinner,  and  will  be 
famished." 

Still  she  clung  to  him ;  still  she  looked  up  in  his 
face,  with  those  solemn,  sorrowful  eyes. 

"  And  you  can  trust  me,  Arthur,  in  spite  of  all  ? 
You  can  love  me  and  believe  in  me  in  spite  of  this 
secret  ?" 

He  stooped,  and  tenderly  kissed  the  wistful,  earnest 
face. 

"  As  I  believe  in  Heaven !  If  I  doubted  you,  my 
own  darling,  I  tliink  I  should  go  mad  1" 


AT    TUE    SUMMER'UOUSE. 


297 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


AT  THE  SUMMER-nOUSE. 


UCY  sat  in  the  dining-room  when  they 
entered,  reading  patiently,  and  ready  to 
wait  with  that  serene  face  of  hers  until  mid- 
night if  they  chose,  for  her  dinner.  From 
that  vigilant  watch-tower  of  hers,  which  she  had 
mounted  so  long  ago,  she  seemed  to  read  wliat*liad 
passed ;  but  Arthur's  face  baffled  her — it  was  so  calm, 
so  reassured,  so  infinitely  tender  and  loving  and  tnist- 
ful  when  it  turned  to  his  wife.  It  turned  to  that  he- 
loved  wife  very  often  this  evening,  and  his  voice  had 
a  new  tenderness,  an  unusual  gentleness,  a  deeper 
respect,  than  his  pale  cousin  had  ever  heard  there 
before. 

Eulalie  was  perfectly  colorless — her  face  was  like 
snow ;  but  it  was  ever  so  of  late ;  and  the  dark, 
beautiful  eyes  had  a  pleading,  mournful  light,  unspeak- 
ably touching  in  that  sweet  young  face — such  a  sad, 
sad  look  of  hopeless  sorrow,  of  despairing  resignation, 
as  one  only  sees  in  the  lovely,  sorrowful  face  of  some 
18* 


f 


r  HS 


1% 


I 


f 


;    'I 
i! 

li 


!  f 


298 


AT    THE    SUMMER-HOUSE. 


picture  of  tlio  Mater  Dolorosa.  A  picture  of  that 
"  Motlier  Most  Sorrowful "  liuug  above  Eulalie's 
bed  ;  and  perhaps  she  h{id  caught  that  pitiful  look 
from  praying  before  it  so  much.  She  was  such  a 
little,  childish-loolving  creature  withal,  with  her 
youthful  face,  and  her  pale  beauty,  and  her  ti.iy 
stature,  that  any  heart  but  the  heart  of  a  jealous 
woman  might  have  been  moved  to  pity  and  for- 
giveness. 

But  the  cold,  jiale  girl  who  sat  at  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  and  ate  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  neither 
pitied  ]ior  forgave. 

She  could  surmise  very  little  of  the  events  of  the 
day,'«cxcept  that  the  circumstance  of  the  ring  had  been 
explained  away,  and  that  Arthur's  first  fleeting  doubts 
of  the  wife  he  loved  had  been  set  at  rest. 

"  He  is  such  a  fool  about  that  black-haired  doll," 
thought  Miss  Sutherland,  "  that  he  would  believe  the 
moon  made  of  green  cheese  if  she  told  him  so.  I 
wonder  if  he  saw  Gaston  Bcnoir  ?  I  w^onder  if  he 
saw  the  ring  ?  Will  he  speak  to  me  on  the  subject 
to-night  V' 

"  Eulalie,"  Arthur  said,  "  I  want  you  to  sing 
'or  me  this  evening,  my  darling.  I  used  to  think  I 
i*ad  caged  a  singing-bird,  but  wo  have  had  no  nmsic  at 
dill  of  late." 


AT    TUB    SUMMER-HOUSE. 


209 


sing 


He  led  lier  to  the  piano,  and  she  fluttered  the  sheets 
of  music  restlessly. 

"  What  shall  I  sing  "*^or  you,  Arthur  ?" 

"  Anything  you  please.  Some  of  the  old  Spanish 
ballads  I  used  to  like  so  much." 

The  little  hands  wandered  aimlessly  over  the  keys, 
and  struck  at  last  into  a  low,  melancholy  symphony, 
along  which  her  sweet  voice  ran  faintly,  and  sadly,  and 
sweetly,  as  the  sighing  of  the  summer  night  wind.  The 
old,  sad  songs  of  fallen  Sjiuin,  her  grandfather  had 
loved  best  of  all,  followed  one  after  the  other,  nntil 
the  mournful  music  made  the  listener's  heart  ache. 
There  was  something  sadder  than  tears  in  the 
face,  looking  out  from  that  cloud  of  feathery  black 
curls,  sometliing  more  touching  than  womanly  weeping 
in  the  sad  patience  of  the  childish  little  singer.  She 
sang  so  softly  that  her  music  seemed  the  echo  of  the 
fiea  wind,  rising  and  falling  in  ^tful  gusts. 

"  Your  music  is  very  melancholy,  my  little  wife," 
Arthur  said,  as  her  hands  dropped  listlessly  off  the 
keys.  "  But  it  brings  back  the  pleasant  old  times  to 
hear  those  sono-s  asiain." 

"  Old  times,"  Enlalie  repeated,  very  sadly.  "  I  am 
afraid  it  would  have  been  better,  my  dearest,  if  those 
old  times  had  never  been." 

She  sat  very  still  and  silent  all  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing.    Ilortense,   the    Swiss  hmme,   brought   in   baby 


n 


!      ^ 


300 


AT    TEE    SUMMER-HOUSE. 


Eulalie ;  and  the  young  mother  sat  in  a  low  nnrse- 
cliair,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  hnshing  it  softly  to 
sleep.  Arthur  challenged  his  cousin  to  a  game  of 
chess  ;  but  ever  and  anon  his  eyes  wandered  from  his 
kings  and  queens,  and  castles  and  bishops,  to  the  pretty 
picture  the  baby-wife  made,  hushing  that  other  baby 
to  sleep. 

"  Check !"  Lucy  cried,  sharply,  and  Arthur  awoke 
from  his  dreaming  to  find  he  had  lost  the  game. 

"What  a  player  you  are  growing  to  be,  Miss 
Lucy !"  he  said,  sweeping  them  all  up  in  a  heap.  "  A 
Sutherland  c-ies  before  he  yields!  Once  more.  '  Come 
on,  Macduff !' " 

This  time  Mr.  Sutherland  watched  the  game,  and 
won  it.  Lucy  had  done  her  best,  and  bit  her  lip  with 
mortification  as  he  arose,  laughing. 

"  I  am  a  match  for  you  yet  in  a  froe  fight,  my  fair 
cousin.  I  told  you  a  Sutherland  never  yields.  Why, 
where  is  Eulalie  ?" 

"Mrs.  Sutherland  left  the  room  some  time  ago," 
said  Lucy.  "  I  dare  say  you  will  find  her  in  the 
nursery." 

Mr.  Sutherland,  however,  did  not  follow  his  wife  to 
the  nursery.  He  drew  back  the  curtains  from  the 
closed  window,  threw  open  the  shuttei-s,  and  sat  down 
in  the  recess,  looking  out  over  the  wide  moonlit  sea. 
Lucy  lingered,  hoping  he  would  speak  of  the  ring ;  but 


AT    THE    SUMMER-UOUSE. 


301 


» 


he  seemed  even  unaware  of  her  presence,  until  her 
voice  startled  him. 

"Good-night,  Arthur." 

"  Good-night,  Liic}-,"  he  said  kindly,  waking  up  from 
his  reverie  for  an  instant,  and  falling  back  again  when 
she  had  left  the  room. 

Truth  to  tell  Arthur  Sutherland  was  not  more  than 
half  satisfied,  though  he  had  seemed  wholly  so  to  Lucy. 
He  could  not  forget  the  the  handsome,  insolent  face  of 
Mr.  Gaston  Benoir ;  he  could  not  forget  the  steady, 
derisive  stare  of  his  bold  black  eyes,  or  the  marked 
meaning  of  his  tone  when  he  spoke  of  the  ring,  lie 
could  not  forget  the  humiliating  fact  that  his  w^ife  had 
given  the  man  this  ring — his  gift.  This  unknown, 
wandering  vagrant  was  in  the  confidence  of  his  wife, 
from  w^hich  he  was  excluded.  She  was  in  the  power  of 
this  insolent  Southerner — his  beautiful,  precious  darling 
— and  gave  him  no  right  to  defend  her  from  him  ;  to 
stand  between  her  and  his  insolence.  The  proud 
Sutherland  blood  boiled  within  him,  and  his  strong 
hand  clenched,  and  his  eyes  flashed  at  the  thought.  He 
believed  in  the  beautiful  creature  he  had  won  for  his 
wife;  he  believed  in  her  purity  and  truth  as  he  believed 
in  his  own  soul ;  but  this  galling  secret  kept  from 
him  w^as  none  the  less  humiliating  for  that.  He  be- 
lieved implicitly  that  she  had  never  set  eyes  on  Gaston 
Benoir  before  the  niuht  of  the  concert.     If  there  were 


1 


I  i 


i 


I'ii 


\ 

II 
I 

il 

I 


802 


AT    THE    SUMMER-HOUSE. 


guilt  ill  the  secret,  the  guilt  was  none  of  hers- -his 
little,  gentle  darling,  half  child,  half  woman.  He  re- 
membered her  grandfather's  strange  conduct — the 
secret  of  his  life  and  his  life's  trouble — kept  from  her 
so  long  as  he  dared  keep  it.  The  secret  of  Gaston 
Benoir's  power  involved  the  honor  of  her  dead  grand- 
father, not  hers ;  and  she  had  promised  that  grandfather 
never  to  reveal  it.  There  was  nothing  for  him — loving 
her  with  that  true-hearted,  unsellish  love — but  to  re- 
spect that  promise,  and  endure  his  mortification. 

He  sat  there  thinking  of  this,  and  staring  blankly 
out  at  the  glorious  m-^onlit  ocean  and  the  star-gemmed 
pky,  so  long  that  it  was  past  midnight  when  he  went 
up-stairs.  His  wife  had  fallen  asleep  when  he  entered 
their  chamber,  and  he  stood  looking  at  her,  with  only 
tender  pity  in  his  eyes.  She  looked  so  young,  so  inno- 
cently beautiful  in  her  slumber,  with  her  wan  face 
shaded,  and  made  paler  by  her  purple  black  hair  all 
loose  over  the  pillow,  that  he  forgot  everything  but  his 
deep  love  and  trust  in  her. 

"  My  poor  little  girl — my  innocent,  unhappy  dar- 
ling !"  he  murmured.  "  Thank  God  that  she  can  sleep 
like  this  !" 

Mr.  Sutlierland  descended  next  morning  to  break' 
fast  alone.  Lucy,  waiting  as  usual,  looked  up  inquir- 
ingly. 

"  Eulalie  will  not  come  down  this  morning,"   he 


AT    TKE    SUMMER-HOUSE. 


308 


he 


said.  "  She  complains  of  liuaduclio.  After  breakfast, 
you  will  send  her  up  some  tea  and  toast." 

Tlirou<^hout  the  meal,  Lucy  sat  expectant,  waiting 
for  some  allusion  to  be  made  to  the  lost  ring,  but  Mr. 
Sutherland  made  none.  lie  had  an  unsocial  habit 
of  reading  during  breakfast,  and  perused  his  letters 
and  papers,  and  sipped  his  coffee,  and  said  very 
little.  When  the  meal  wab  over,  he  sat  down  with  a 
book,  and  was  deep  in  its  pages,  when  a  sudden  ex- 
clamation from  his  cousin  made  him  look  uj).  She 
wius  standing,  gazing  eagerly  out  of  the  front  window 
conunanding  a  view  of  the  grounds. 

"  Well  V  said  Arthur,  inquiringly. 

"There  is  the  man,"  exclaimed  Lucy,  "of  whom 
we  were  speaking  yesterday — that  strange  Southerner, 
Mr.  Benoir." 

Arthur's  face  flushed.  He  rose,  looking  in  the 
direction  his  cousin  pointed,  and  saw  the  handsome 
tenor  crossing  the  lawn,  with  his  eternal  cigar  in  his 
'nouth. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  carelessly.  "  I 
Raw  the  man  yesterday,  and  told  him  to  come  as  often 
as  he  pleased.  I  hardly  expected  so  early  a  visit, 
thou2,'h." 

lie  sat  down  again  to  his  book,  but  all  its  interest 
w'as  ffone.  Mr.  Benoir's  bold  black  eyes  and  derisive 
smile  mocked  him  from  every  printed  page.     The  sight 


V 


'A 


n 


V. 


•i  I 


I 


i: 


804 


AT    THE!    SUMMEUnoUSE. 


^ 


i   5 


of  the  man  disturbed  liim  as  notliinff  else  could  liavo 
•  done,  and  he  suddenly  threw  the  book  down  and  went 
up  to  his  wife's  room.  She  was  kneeling  in  her  white 
muslin  morning-dress  before  the  pictured  Mater 
Dolorosa,  her  sweet  face  uplifted,  her  earnest  eyes  up- 
raised. Arthur  waited  until  she  arose,  looking  out  of 
the  window  at  tl^e  sunshine  lying  bright  in  the  green 
fields. 

"  Eulalie,  my  darling,"  he  said,  turning  round 
hastily,  "  do  you  know  who  is  here  ?" 

"No,  Arthur." 

"  The  man  you  fear  so  much — the  man  who  has 
your  ring  I" 

She  began  to  tremble  suddenly ;  the  blank,  terrified 
stare  dilating  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Eulalie,  do  you  know  what  brings  him  here  ?" 

Her  lips  formed  "  No ;"  but  in  the  first  shock  of 
her  husband's  words  she  had  no  voice  to  speak. 

"  M}^  love,"  Arthur  said,  coming  over  and  encircling 
the  slender  waist  with  his  arm,  "  why  should  you  dread 
this  man  so  much,  whert  I  am  here  to  protect  you  ? 
Come,  Eulalie,  show  yourself  a  brave  little  woman. 
Give  me  leave  to  go  and  take  your  ring  from  this 
fellow,  and  kick  him  out  of  the  grounds." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  terror,  as  she  clasped  his  arm 
tight,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  her  wild  eyes. 

"  No,  no,  no !     Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds !     Oh, 


AT    TUB    aUMMER-nOUSE. 


805 


Oh, 


Arthur,  Arthur,  I  am  utterly,  and  entirely,  and  beyond 
all  earthly  hope,  in  the  power  of  this  man.  Arthur, 
Arthur!  if  you  love  me,  avoid  him,  don't  speak  to  him, 
don't  offend  him,  don't  turn  him  out  of  the  grounds,  or 
ask  him  for  my  ring  I" 

"  Eulalie  I" 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you,  Arthur  ! — I  daro  not  tell 

you  I  and  yet  you  may  know  it  some  day.     Oh,  I  wish 

— I  wish  I  had  never  been  bom  !" 

She  wrung  her  pale  hands,  and  fell  down  on  the 

sofa  in  a  lit  of  hysterical  weepiuL,.     In  all  things,  in 

this  passionate  crying,  she  was  more  of  a  child  than  a 

woman ;    and  she  wept  passionately,  vehemently,  as  a 

cliild  might  weep,  now. 

"  My  love  !  my  love !"  Arthur  said,  dismayed,  "  do 
not  grieve  like  this  !  Eulalie,  dearest,  be  calm.  I  will 
do  all  you  ask.  ^  shall  not  interfere  between  you  and 
this  man." 

It  was  long  before  the  hysterical  sobbing  ceased, 
and  left  the  fragile  little  creature  quite  exhausted.  She 
drooped  among  the  silken  cushions,  her  poor  head 
aching  almost  beyond  endm'ance. 

"  I  will  leave  you  for  a  while,  darling,"  Arthur  said, 
kissing  the  pallid,  tear-stained  face.  "  Try  and  sleep. 
You  have  cried  until  you  are  quite  worn  out." 

He  drew  the  curtains  to  darken  the  room,  and  went 
down-staii*s,  and  out.     As  he  crossed  the  velvet  lawn, 


[ 


\ 


\ 


Vk 


''  1 


L 


800 


AT    THE    a UMM Eli  HOUSE!. 


Mr.  Bcnoir  came  Bauntcring  out  of  tlic  woodliuid  path 
luadiiifif  to  the  old  Biiinincr-liouse,  still  smoking,  and 
lifted  lilfs  hat  in  polite  rceognition. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Sutherland,"  said  bland  Mr. 
Benoir ;  "  I  hope  I  have  not  availed  myself  of  your 
Ivirid  2)ermission  too  early  in  the  morning.  Rising 
l)etimes  is  an  old  habit  of  mine,  and  the  beauty  of  tho 
day  tem])ted  me  this  far." 

A  stiff  bow  was  Mr.  Sutherland's  only  reply,  as  he 
passed  on.  Mr.  Benoir  looked  after  him,  with  that 
peculiar  smile  of  his  back  again. 

"Humph !"  he  thought ;  " so  that  is  your  little 
game,  Mr.  Sutherland,  is  it?  I  expected  to  have  been 
collared  this  morning,  and  this  pretty  ring  of  mine,  or 
an  explanation,  demanded.  But  I  see  we  are  prudent. 
Our  pretty  little  wife  is  opjwsed  to  violent  measures, 
and  we  love  her  too  much  to  offend  her.  Just  as  you 
please,  Mr.  Sutherland ;  it  will  all  come  to  the  same 
thing  in  the  end.  I  wonder  if  that  wildcat,  Rebecca, 
is  on  the  lookout  ?" 

If  Rebecca  was  on  the  lookout,  she  did  not  appear ; 
for  Miss  Sutherland  was  on  the  lookout,  also.  Mr. 
Benoir  loitered  about  for  some  time.  He  wanted  to 
see  the  housemaid,  to  discover  any  particulars  about 
Eulalie  she  might  know ;  but  Rebecca  did  not  come, 
lie  waited  until  nearly  noon,  smoking  no  end  of  cigars. 


AT    THE    3UMMEn-nOUSE. 


807 


and  talking  to  his  friciul  the  gardener,  and  was  forced 
at  lajst  to  leave  without  Heeiiig  her. 

Eulalie's  headache  was  very  obdurate,  and  contined 
her  to  her  room  all  day.  She  lay  in  her  darkened 
chamber,  with  her  throbbing  temples  pressed  between 
her  hands,  thinking  distractedly  how  she  was  to  keep 
her  appointment  tliat  night.  SIio  dared  not  stay  away, 
yet  how  should  she  go  without  her  husband's  knowledge. 
In  his  loving  anxiety  about  her,  he  was  in  the  room 
every  hour,  inquiring  if  she  felt  better,  if  he  could  do 
anything  for  her,  and  always  hearing  that  sad,  weary 
answer,  "  Oh,  no  !"  Chance,  however,  or  Mr.  Benoir's 
lucky  star,  favored  her.  During  the  afternoon,  a 
message  arrived  from  Colonel  Madison,  a  very  old 
friend  of  the  family,  requesting  him  to  ride  over  to  his 
place  at  once,  if  convenient,  and  help  him  to  settle  a 
little  matter  of  business. 

"  As  you  arc  so  unwell,  my  love,"  Mr.  Sutherland 
said,  reading  the  colonel's  note  aloud  to  his  wife,  "  I 
will  write,  and  ask  him  to  postpone  it  until  to-morrow. 
If  I  go,  it  will  probably  be  late  before  I  return." 

"  Don't  postpone  it !"  exclaimed  his  wife,  eagerly, 
*'  don't  disappoint  the  colonel  because  of  my  headache  j 
I  will  be  better  left  quite  alone." 

Arthur  hesitated  a  little  ;  but  Eulalie  pressed  him 
to  comply,  with  very  unwonted  energy. 

"  Do  go,  Ai'thm*  1    You  know  how  odd  the  old 


I'l 


r 


V\ 


II 

It-  i 

i 


1 ' ' 

:  ^1 


! 


i.i 


i::; 


li'l !  1 


)!f|; 

ill! 


^ 


308 


AT    THE    SUMMEIi-EOUaE. 


colonel  is,  and  how  he  cannot  bear  the  slightest  dis- 
appointment. Don't  mind  my  headache,  dear,  it  will 
wear  itself  away  after  a  while." 

Thus  urged,  Mr.  Sutherland  dressed,  and  rode  away. 
Luey  came  out  into  the  lower  hall,  as  he  stood  in  the 
doorway,  drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"  I  would  rather  postpone  it,"  he  said,  "  on  account 
of  Eulalie's  indisposition ;  but  Eulalie  herself  presses 
me  to  go.     I  will  not  return  for  dinner." 

Luey  smiled.  She  understood  why  Eulalie  pressed 
him  to  go  away,  very  well. 

"  I  am  c:lad  the  coast  is  clear "  she  thoui^ht. 
"  Now,  my  lady,  nothing  remains  but  to  watch  you." 

Miss  Sutherland  took  her  work  up-stairs,  and  took 
her  i^ost  in  a  room  opposite  Eulalie's,  across  the  hall. 
She  left  the  door  ajar,  so  that  tlie  slightest  sound  in  the 
hall  could  not  fail  to  be  overheard  ;  but  the  long  after- 
noon wore  on,  and  no  sound  came  from  the  closed 
chamber  of  her  cousin's  wife.  Twilight  fell,  gray  and 
ghostly,  and  still  no  sign  of  life  within  that  silent  room. 
As  it  grew  too  dark  to  work.  Miss  Sutherland  arose, 
crossed  the  hall,  and  tapped  at  the  door  she  had 
watched.  It  was  opened  at  once,  and  by  Eulidie.  She 
had  evidently  been  up  some  time  ;  for  her  loose  morning 
neglige  was  exchanged  for  a  dark  dress  of  soft,  un- 
rustling  texture,  and  a  long  black  numtle  with  a  hood 
was  thrown  over  the  back  of  a  chair.     She  was  start- 


1 

er    THE    SUMMER-nOU8E.                    309 

:  dis- 

lingly  pale,  Lucy  saw ;  but  that  was  nothing  out  of  the 

b  will 

connnon  now. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  up,  Mrs.  Sutherland," 

iway. 

said  Lucy.     "  I  hope  you  feel  better?" 

n  the 

*'  Yes,"  Eulalic,  said  softly. 

"  AV  ill  you  have  some  tea  and  toast  here,  or  will  you 

30unt 

come  down  and  have  dinner  ?" 

esses 

riiank  you  !    I  will  have  the  tea  and  toast,  if  you 

please." 

esbcd 

Miss  Sutherland  bowed,  and  withdrew.     And  the 

tea  and   toast   were   duly  dispatched      She   dined   in 

Light. 

solitary  state  herself,  as  she  had  been  wont  to  do  in  the 

u." 

days  when  she  was  the  isolated  recluse  of  Mai:)lewood  ; 

took 

and  making  a  very  hasty  meal  of  it,  returned  to  her 

hall. 

post  up-stairs. 

11  the 

The  summer  twilight,  pale  and  blue  as  Lucy's  own 

ifter- 

eyes,  faded  out  into  night.     A  dark  and  overcast  night, 

loscd 

threatening  rain,  a  dull  starless  sky,  an  obscured  moon, 

'  and 

and  a  fitful   complaining  wind  stirring  in  the  trees. 

•ooni. 

Lucy  took    no    light — the    hall-lamp    afforded    light 

irose, 

sufficient   for  her  to  sit  and  wait  by,  and  count  the 

had 

passing  hours. 

She 

Eight  struck.     Lucy  waited  and  waited,  with  folded 

•ning 

hands,  and  the  stcq  .ly  patience  of  a  woman's  hatred. 

,  iin- 

]S  inc.     The  closed  door  of  Eulalie's  room  softly  opened, 

hood 

and  Eulalie  herself,  with  the  cloak  thrown  over  her  arm. 

start- 

came out.     In  the  light  of  the  hall-lamp,  Lucy  could 

I 


310 


AT    THE    SUMMEU-nOUSE. 


ipi: 


?'  I      ! 


!;i 


i/'i 


\-'\\ 


see  liow  wofully  corpse-like  she  looked,  as  she  glided 
down  the  deserted  corridor,  down  the  staircase,  and 
along  the  lower  hall.  IIow  was  bhe  to  know  of  the  im- 
placable enemy  following  so  stealthily,  so  surely  on  her 
trail  ?  She  had  opened  the  front-door,  and  was  out  in 
the  dark,  sultry  night.  She  paused  to  throw  the  mantle 
around  her  shoulders,  and  draw  the  hood  over  her  head, 
and  to  take  a  startled  look  about  on  every  side,  and 
then  she  was  gliding  on  again,  and  her  shadow  was 
following  her,  surely  and  silently,  to  her  doom  ! 

Moonless  and  starless  though  it  was,  there  ^vas  liglit 
enough  in  the  night  to  show  the  path  without  difficulty, 
and  Arthur  Sutherland's  wife  and  cousin  went  steadily 
on.  Once  Eulalie  had  paused  for  a  second  on  the 
grassy  terrace  to  glance  at  the  black,  moaning  sea,  and 
then  had  struck  into  the  woodland  path  leading  to  the 
summer-house.  She  paused  at  the  door,  and  tapped 
softly.  Lucy  saw  it  open  instantly,  saw  Eulalie  enter, 
the  door  close,  and  then  she  was  alone  with  her  beating 
heart,  under  the  black  trees. 

If  she  could  only  overhear  I  Treading  lightly  on 
the  dewy  grass  that  gave  back  no  echo,  she  stole  round 
to  the  end  of  the  summer-house,  to  crouch  down  with 
her  ear  to  the  wall.  She  turned  the  corner  of  the  little 
building,  with  one  hand  outstretched  to  feel  her  way, 
for  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  it  w^as  very  dark.  As 
she  stooped,  the  outstretched  hand  fell  on  something 


AT    THE    SUMMER-nOUSE. 


811 


warm — a  human  face !  At  the  same  instant,  her  wrist 
was  forcibly  grasped,  and  the  cry  of  terror  that  arose 
to  her  lips,  hushed  by  an  imperative  voice. 

"  Hush,  I  tell  you !"  her  captor  said,  in  a  fierce 
whisper.     "  Who  are  you  ?" 

"  Lucy  Sutherland,"  she  faltered,  in  mortal  dread. 

There  was  a  pause.  Her  eyes  had  grown  more  ac- 
customed to  the  darkness  of  the  place,  and  she  saw  her 
captor  was  a  woman  crouching  on  the  ground.  The 
woman  arose  and  stood  before  her,  and,  dim  as  the 
light  was,  Lucy  recognized  her — Rebecca,  the  house- 
maid! 


■^im 


V 


!'l 


II 
V 

!  I 


I 


i:'!l 


S 


ilii 


'I 

h 


813 


CONFIDENTIAL, 


CHAPTER  XX. 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


HE  two  women  stood  looking  at  each  other  in 
silence.  The  light  was  too  obscure  to  show 
the  face  of  either  plainly,  and  each  seemed 
waiting  for  the  other  to  speak.  Rebecca 
still  grasped  Miss  Sutherland's  wrist,  towering  up  above 
her,  in  her  tall  stature,  almost  to  the  height  of  a 
giantess.  Lucy  was  the  first  to  recover — the  first  to 
speak. 

"Let   go  my   wrist,   Rebecca,"  she  said,  quietly; 
**  you  are  hurting  me." 

The  girl  loosened  her  grasp,  and  still  stood  silent. 
"You    have    come    here    to — "  Miss    Sutherland 
paused. 

"  To  listen !"  said  Rebecca,  finisliing  the  sentence ; 
"  as  you  have  done,  Miss  Sutherland." 
"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?" 
"Over  half  an  hour." 

"  You  know  who  are  in  the  summer-house  ?" 
"  Gaston  Benoir  and  Mrs.  Sutherland." 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


813 


They  spoke  in  whispers,  standing  very  close  to- 
gether, like  two  conspirators,  with  the  ghastly  trees 
rising  dark  about  them.  In  the  pause  that  followed 
Rebecca's  last  words,  a  low  murmuring  of  voices  within 
the  summer-house  was  distinctly  audible. 

"  Listen,"  said  Rebecca ;  "  we  understand  each  other. 
If  we  want  to  overhear  what  is  going  on  within,  now  is 
our  time." 

She  crouched  down  again  with  her  ear  close  to  the 
wall,  and  Lucy  followed  her  example.  Some  natural 
repugnance  she  felt,  some  natural  shame,  not  so  nmch 
at  the  eavesdropping,  as  at  that  eavesdropping  being 
known  ;  but  curiosity  was  stronger  than  any  otlier  feel- 
ing. Noiselessly  the  young  lady  and  the  housemaid 
sank  down  in  the  dewy  grass,  and  hushed  their  very 
breathing  to  listen.  The  chirping  of  some  wakeful 
bird  in  its  nest,  the  sighing  of  the  restless  trees  in  the 
night-wind,  the  dull,  monotonous  rush  of  the  waves  on 
the  shore,  sounded  intolerably  loud  in  the  hush  of  the 
night.  Nothing  but  an  indistinct  nmrmur  of  voices 
could  be  heard  within — the  words  of  the  speakers  were 
inaudible.  Sometimes  the  voice  of  Eulalie  rose 
passionate,  imploring,  vehement.  Sometimes  Mr. 
Benoir's  loud,  derisive  laugh  rang  softly  out,  but  every 
effort  to  overhear  the  conversation  proved  fruitless. 
Still  the  two  spies  crouched  in  the  wet  grass,  holding 
14 


*•: 


f\ 


■F' 


. 


I 


i; 


I' .; 


?!r:: 


314 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


their  breath,  and  straining  every  faculty  into  the  one 
sense  of  licaring. 

At  last  the  interview  seemed  terminating ;  they 
could  hear  Mr.  Benoir  walking  about,  and  catch  a  few 
words,  as  he  drew  close  to  their  place  of  hiding. 

"  You  cannot  have  the  money  then,  you  say,  before 
the  expiration  of  a  week.  Well,  the  sum  is  large ;  and 
if  I  must  wait,  why,  I  must." 

The  sweet,  foreign-accented  voice  of  the  Creole  lady 
murmured  softly  in  reply.  They  could  not  catch  her 
words.  Presently,  Mr.  Benoir,  walking  up  and  down, 
became  audible  again. 

"If  this  night  week  suits  your  convenience,  my 
pretty  Eulalie,  then  this  night  week  let  it  be.  I  want 
the  money  particularly,  I  can  tell  you.  I  expect  to  be 
married  shortly." 

Rebecca,  the  housemaid,  gave  a  start  that  nearly 
overset  Lucy,  but  in  an  instant  she  was  statuesque 
again. 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  becoming  audible 
once  more,  "  your  husband  admires  my  ring,  I  think, 
Eulalie.  I  took  pains  to  let  him  see  it,  and  I  fancy  he 
has  spoken  to  you  about  the  striking  resemblance  it 
bears  to  one  you  used  to  wear.  Come,  my  dear,  be 
confidential,  and  tell  us  what  he  said." 

They  could  hear  the  distressed  appealing  voice  that 
replied,  but  not  her  answer.     They  could  hear  Mr. 


le  one 

;  they 
a  few 

before 
;e ;  and 

j[e  lady 
tell  her 
I  down, 

ice,  my 

I  want 

it  to  be 

,  nearly 
tuesque 

audible 
think, 
'ancy  he 
ilance  it 
dear,  be 

ice  that 
I  ear  Mr. 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


315 


Benoir  laufxh,  but  not  his  next  words,   and  then  the 


•o"j 


door  opened  and  they  heard  him  plainly  : 

"  This  night  week,  then,  at  the  same  hour,  you  will 
find  me  here.  Good  night,  most  beautiful  Eulalie,  and 
happy  dreams !" 

The  two  spies  crouched  yet  further  down,  hushing 
their  very  heart-beating,  lest  its  loudness  should  Ijetniy 
them.  They  could  hear  the  soft  rustle  of  Eulalie's 
dress  against  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  the  louder  sound 
of  Mr.  Benoir's  footsteps  as  he  followed,  whistling. 
When  the  last  faint  sound  died  out,  and  nothing  but 
the  noises  of  the  night  remained,  they  rose  up. 

"  Come,"  said  Lucy  Sutherland,  "  let  us  go.  You 
and  I  must  have  a  talk  to-night  before  we  sleep." 

She  glided  noiselessly  along  the  path,  and  the  tall 
Rebecca  followed  her,  smiling  under  cover  of  the 
darkness  at  having  caught  her  so  nicely.  Suddenly, 
Lucy  stopped — the  sound  of  a  horse  galloj^ing  rapidly 
along  the  road  struck  on  their  ears. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Sutherland,"  Lucy  said,  hurriedly.  "  I 
do  not  wish  him  to  see  us.  Let  us  go  in  by  the  side- 
door." 

Kebecca  followed  her  into  the  house  by  one  of  the 
servants'  entrances,  l^o  one  met  them,  as  they  rapidly 
crossed  the  hall  and  ascended  the  stairs. 

"  Come  to  my  room,"  said  Lucy,  out  of  breath.  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you,  Rebecca." 


i^i 


I'  ^ 

ill 


N 


k  It. 


\i 


i> 


m. 

m 

I;. 
\\% 


in 


I!  :li 


r 


il 


4111'    I! 

!r  '  'lit 


n:"' 


]| 


M 


I   il 


i 
1 
f 


II 


i  II 


If     S 


1  .  I 


81G 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


"Yes,  Miss,"  said  the  undisturbed  Kebccca;  and 
they  entered  Miss  Sutherland's  chamber  togetlier,  just 
as  Mr.  Sutherland  was  heard  coining  along  the  entrance- 
hall 

Lucy's  pretty  room  was  unlighted,  but  her  night- 
lamp  stood  ready  on  the  dressing-table.  The  window 
was  still  open  that  sultry  August  night,  and  the  paL* 
lighter  darkness  made  the  room  luminous. 

"  Sit  down,  Rebecca,"  said  Lucy,  closing  and  locking 
the  door.  "  Do  you  mind  sitting  in  the  dark,  or  shall 
I  light  the  lamp  ?" 

"Just  as  you  please,  Miss  Sutherland,"  said  the 
black-eyed  housemaid,  with  infinite  composure.  "  It's 
all  one  to  me." 

"  Yery  well  then — I  prefer  this  light  to  talk  by, 
Rebecca." 

Rebecca  had  seated  herself  by  the  open  window. 
Lucy  took  an  arm-chair  near  her,  and  touched  her 
folded  hands  as  she  pronounced  her  name. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sutherland,"  composedly  answered  Re- 
becca. 

"  "Will  you  tell  me  why  jc  .  came  to  be  at  the  sum- 
mer-house to-niijjht  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you.  I  wanted  to  hear  what  Gaston 
Benoir  had  to  say  to  Mrs.  Sutherland." 

"  How  came  you  to  know  they  were  there  ?  Y  ou 
were  at  the  summer-house  before  Mrs.  Sutherland." 


l;  and 
ir,  just 
trauce- 

night- 
dndow 
LC  palo 

locking 
>r  sliall 

lid  the 

,     "  It's 

talk  by, 

sivindow. 
lied  her 

ired  Re- 

:lie  sum- 

t  Gaston 

e?     You 
[and." 


CONFIDENTIAL, 


317 


"  Yes,  I  was  waiting  for  her  to  come." 

"  How  did  you  know  she  was  coming  ?" 

The  housemaid  smiled  under  favor  of  the  dusk  at 
all  this  cross-questioning. 

"  Miss  Sutherland,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  it  is 
not  the  first  time  she  has  been  there  with  him." 

Miss  Sutherland  j)aused,  aghast,  at  the  knowledge 
of  the  housemaid. 

"  You  know  she  has  met  him  before !  Rebecca, 
how  did  you  discover  it  ?" 

"  As  I  discovered  them  to-night — by  watching  and 
waiting." 

"  Has  it  been  since  you  came  here  ?"  asked  Lucy, 
breathlessly. 

"  No." 

Lucy  came  near  in  her  devouring  cm'iosity,  and 
caught  the  girl's  hand,  and  held  it  hard. 

"  Rebecca,  you  listened — what  was  it  you  over- 
heard ?" 

"  Nothing !" 

"  Nothing  ?" — incredulously. 

"  No,  Miss  Sutherland,  I  heard  nothing.     I  only 


saw. 


5) 


"  What  did  you  see  1" 

"Mrs.  Sutherland  enter  the  summer-house  where 
Gaston  Benoir  was  in  waiting,  remain  there  about  fif* 
teen  minutes,  and  depart  again." 


li 


^ 


i'" 


'  1  if  e 


ill 

I    Si 


i 


''( 


r 


818 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


'I  J II 


lilj'  ' 


"  And  how  did  you  happen  to  bo  in  hiding  that 

niglit?" 

Again  Rebecca  smiled. 

"  I  followed  Gaston  Benoir  from  the  village.  I 
knew  nothing  of  Mrs.  Sutherland.  I  only  wanted  to 
see  where  he  was  going  that  thne  of  night." 

"  You  know  Giuston  Benoir,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sutherland." 

"  Rebecca,  I  am  very  curious  about  that  man. 
Will  you  not  tell  me  who  and  what  he  is  ?  I  will  make 
it  worth  your  while  if  you  do." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell,  Miss  Sutherland,"  said 
the  housemaid,  quietly.  "  Gaston  Benoir  is  Gaston 
Benoir,  and  that  is  almost  all  I  know  of  his  history." 

In  the  darkness  of  the  room,  Rebecca  could  not  see 
how  the  listener's  face  darkened  wich  anger  and  disap- 
pointment. But  the  low,  eager  voice  was  unchanged 
when  she  spoke. 

"  Almost  all !  Will  you  not  tell  me  all.  It  is  for 
Mr.  Sutherland's  sake  I  ask — Mr.  Sutherland,  Rebecca, 
who  knows  nothing  of  those  stolen  meetings." 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  that.  But  Mr.  Sutherland 
has  no  cause  to  be  jealous." 

"  Rebecca !" 

"  No,  Miss.  Gaston  Benoir  and  Mrs.  Sutherland 
have  very  little  love  for  one  another — very  little, 
indeed." 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


819 


ig  tLat 


ige.    I 
itcd  to 


it  man. 
.11  make 

i,"  said 
Gaston 

:ory." 
not  see 

d  disap- 

clianged 

;t  is  for 
Rebecca, 

therland 


tlierland 
y  little, 


"  How  do  you  know  that  ?'' 

"  Gaston  Benoir  told  me,  for  one  thing ;  and  I  have 
eyes,  and  can  see  for  myself." 

"  What  ?" 

"  That  Mrs.  Sutherland  loves  her  husband,  and 
would  die  a  thousand  deaths  sooner  than  dislionor 
him." 

"  Does  she  not  dishonor  hun  by  meeting  this  man 
at  all  ?"  said  Lucy,  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"  Perhaps  she  cannot  help  herself.  Perhaps  she  is 
too  much  afraid  of  Gaston  Benoir  to  refuse." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that,  too?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Rebecca,  how  long  have  you  known  this  man  ?" 

"  About  two  years." 

"  Where  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"  In  New  Orleans." 

"  What  was  he  then.f ' 

"  A  sailor,"  said  Rebecca ;  "  just  arrived  from 
South  America." 

"  A  sailor  !  What  more  do  you  know  of  him  ?  Is 
he  a  native  of  South  America  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  he  was  born  in  Louisiana." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Miss  Sutherland,  impatiently. 

"  Well,"  repeated  the  very  calm  Pebecca ;  "  that  is 
all  I  know." 


■if  Hi 


:  '  i' 


■m.  i?' 


-'Hi   -rl 


r 


820 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


i  !^! 


til: 


m 


d<  "'i 


W 


"  I  don't  believe  yoii,"  the  yonn^]^  lady's  angry  face 
said  ;  but  she  restrained  herself,  and  8])()ke  calmly. 

"  And  Mr.  Benoir  is  a  very  handsome  young  man, 
and  a  lover  of  yours,  of  course  ?" 

The  dark  face  of  the  housemaid  flushed  red  in  the 
gloom. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sutherland." 

"  Well,  you  tell  me  about  it,  Rebecca.  Perhaps  I 
can   tell  you  something  in   return   that  will  interest 


you 


t" 


Kebecca  looked  surprised. 

"  There  is  not  nmch  to  tell.  I  knew  him  in  New 
Orleans,  and  we  were  going  to  be  married  ;  but  he — " 

She  stopped,  suddenly ;  and  Miss  Sutherland,  still 
holding  her  hand,  still  leaning  forward  to  see  her  face 
in  the  darkness,  finished  the  sentence. 

"  Deserted  you !  And  you  followed  him  here  1 
There,  there  ;  I  see  it  all — I  thought  from  the  first  you 
were  no  ordinary  housemaid.  I  thought,  under  all 
that  self-suppressed  manner,  some  strong  motive  la} 
hidden.     Twcbecca, 


people 


yo", 


eyes 


their  heads  as  you  have  got,  do  not  ordinarily  forgive 
such  slights  very  readily.  Have  you  forgiven  your 
recreant  lover  ?" 


"  Yes,  Miss  Sutherland. 


)> 


u 


You  have  ?     And  why  I 


» 


"  Because  I  love  him  ! 


J) 


C02it'WKNTlAL. 


321 


•y  face 

i;  mun, 
in  tlie 


liaps  I 
ntcrcst 


n  New 
he—" 
id,  still 
er  face 

here  I 
rst  you 
(ler  all 
ive  la} 
eyes  in 
forgive 
Q  your 


Some  of  the  inward  tire,  bo  well  suppressed,  broke 
out  in  the  girl's  face  and  voice  as  she  spoke ;  and  Lucy, 
in  the  dim  light,  saw  it. 

"  Ah  !  and  what  did  he  say  when  ho  saw  you  here? 
Does  he  love  you  still  V 

"  Yes." 

"Wliy,  then,  did  he  leave  you?" 

llehecca  Hushed  again.  ^Ir.  Ijcuuir's  e.\j)lanation 
sounded  very  lame  and  humiliating  re-told. 

"  Because — because — Miss  Sutherland,"  said  Re- 
becca, desperately,  "I  decline  answering  that  (pies- 
tion !" 

"  As  you  please.  But  he  told  you  ho  still  loved 
you  ?" 

"  lie  did." 

"  And  M'ould  marry  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  housemaid,  impatiently,  growing 
tired  of  this  searching  catechism. 

"  When  ?" 

"When  he  has  money  enough  to  keep  a  wife  as 
she  should  be  kept." 

"  But  he  seems  to  have  plenty  of  money  now.  He 
dresses  as  only  a  rich  man  can  alTord  to  dress,  his 
pockets  lU'C  always  full,  and  he  wears  a  diamond  ring. 
Why  does  he  not  marry  you  now  ^"' 

Kebecca's  ansN^er  was  an   impatient  gesture.     She 
Lad  no  faith  in  the  man  she  loved,  though  she  tried 
14* 


V  '  i  :!J 


'  1'^ 


. 


823 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


rii^'i 


»!    * 


■I; 

i  "'il' 


ifi' 


ill 

i  i' 


with  all  the  strength  of  her  woman's  heart  to  believe 
him.  She  had  trusted  him  implicitly  once,  and  had 
been  deceived  ;  and  with  that  betrayed  trust  had  died 
her  faith  in  mankind  forever.  But  she  loved  him  still 
-  -how  entirely,  how  devotedly,  how  insanely,  none  but 
lierself  knew — and  her  faith  in  him  was  only  hoping 
against  hope. 

"  lie  could  marry  you  now  if  he  chose.  lie  has 
plenty  of  money,  wherever  it  comes  from.  Why  does 
he  not  do  it  ?" 

"  Miss  Sutherland  !"  cried  Hebecca,  with  sudden 
fierceness  ;  "  let  me  alone  !  I  am  not  a  good  woman 
at  my  best,  but  you  seem  to  raise  the  very  demon 
within  me.  Why  he  does  not  marry  me  is  my  affair, 
not  yours.     Let  me  go  to  my  room." 

She  rose  up,  but  Lucy's  thin  hand  closed  on  her 
wrist  like  a  sj^ring. 

"  Not  yet !"  she  said ;  "  not  yet.  One  good  turn 
deserves  another.  You  have  told  me  what  you  know, 
now  wait  and  listen  to  what  I  know !" 

Rebecca  sat  down  again,  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  her  black  brows  contracting  ominously,  her  thin 
lips  compressed,  her  eyes  tixed  on  the  young  lady's 
face. 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  why  Gaston  Benoir  does  not 
marry  you.     Shall  I  tell  you  ?'■ 


"  J  f  you  can  I 


jj 


turn 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


823 


"  I  can,  very  easily !  It  is  simply  because  he  is 
going  to  marry  some  one  else  I" 

"  Miss  Sutherland !" 

"  I  am  telling  yon  the  truth.  I  know  positively  he 
would  have  been  married  before  this,  if  the  girl's 
mother  would  have  given  her  consent." 

The  dark  housemaid  sat  stunned.  In  the  dim 
light,  Lucy  could  sec  the  fixed  stare  of  blank  conster- 
nation in  her  dilating  eyes. 

"  He  loves  this  girl.  I  am  sure,  and  he  does  not  love 
you.  He  is  a  liar  and  a  villain,  and  he  has  deceived 
you,  my  poor  Rebecca,  as  cruelly  as  ever  woman  was 
deceived  by  man." 

Rebecca  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  Her  whole  face 
and  form  seemed  to  settle  into  an  awful  rigidity,  her 
unwinking  eyes  still  staring  blankly  at  the  speaker. 
Lucy  was  almost  f lightened. 

"Rebecca,"  she  said,  shaking  her  slightly;  "do 
you  hear  me  ?  are  you  turning  to  stone  ?  Spccik  to 
me,  Rebecca.     Have  you  heard  what  I  said  ?" 

"  Yes." 

The  monosyllabic  dropped  from  her  lips  like  an 
icicle,  but  her  glittering  black  eyes  ne\  or  left  the 
speak cr^s  face. 

"  Do  you  believe  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 


;l 


'  ^ 


I 


324 


CONFIDENTIAL. 


|:  :■! 


S'  '31 


i    I 


"  Do  you  not  want  to  know  the  girl's  name — the 
name  of  your  fortunate  rival  2" 

"  Yes." 

Her  frozen  manner  relaxed  as  she  said  it,  and  a 
sudden  fury  leaped  into  her  tigerish  black  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  under  her  breath,  half  hissing 
the  words ;  "  yes ;  what  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Sophie  Weldon  !  The  prettiest  girl  in  St.  Mary's, 
Rebecca,  and  she  adores  him.  You  know  whom  I 
mean,  pretty  Sopliie  Weldon,  whose  mother  keeps  the 
hotel." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !"  Rebecca  cried,  with  devouring 
eagerness.  "  I  know !  I  have  seen  her  I  A  pretty 
wax  doll,  with  pink  cheeks  and  blue  eyes  and  yellow 
curls !  Oh,  I  might  have  known  I  I  might  have 
known !" 

She  shook  off  Miss  Sutherland's  grasp,  and  rose  up, 
her  tall  stature  looking  gigantic  in  the  gloom. 

"  Have  you  anything  more  to  tell  me,  Miss  Suther- 
land ?" 

"  Not  much,"  said  Lucy,  also  rising.  "  You  can 
easily  prove  the  trath  of  my  story  by  going  to  St. 
Mary's,  and  inquiring." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  doubt  it.  It  is  very  like  Gaston 
Benoir.  I  am  not  surprised  at  him.  I  am  only  sur- 
prised at  myself,  that  I  could  have  been  such  a  blind 
fool !" 


the 


and  a 

[lissing 

!kIary'B, 
bom  I 
Bps  the 


CONFIDENTIAL, 


325 


"  And,  Rebecca,"  said  Lucy,  uneasily,* "  all  this  is  to 
remain  a  dead  secret  between  ourselves.  You  under- 
stand ?" 

"  I  understand  perfectly,  Miss  Sutherland,  and  am 
much  obliged  to  you !  Permit  me  to  bid  you  good- 
night." 

"  Good-night,  Rebecca,"  Lucy  said ;  and  the  tall, 
dark  figure  flitted  away,  shadow-like,  into  the  deeper 
darkness  of  the  attic  stairs. 


rourmg 
pretty 
yellow 

t    have 

ose  up, 

Suther- 

ou  can 
to  St. 

Gaston 
mly  sur- 
a  blind 


y 


32e 


MU.     BENOIR'S    DILEMMA, 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 


MR.  BENOIR'S   dilemma. 


HE  day  after  the  evening  in  the  summer- 
house,  Mr.  Gaston  Benoir  sat  in  his  own 
private  apartment  in  the  Weldon  House, 
enjoying  solitude  and  a  choice  cigar. 
Smoking  came  as  natural  and  was  ahnost  as  necessary 
as  breathing  to  the  ex-Troubadour,  and  now,  in  an  easy- 
chair  by  the  window,  his  legs  elevated  on  another,  Mr. 
Benoir,  in  after-dinner  mood,  "^moked'and  mused. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  cold  and  rainy,  with  a 
raw  wind  blowing  fresh  from  the  sea.  The  sky  was  of 
lead,  the  slanting  rain  beat  ceaselessly  on  the  glass,  and 
the  sea-gale  rattled  the  shutters  and  shook  the  windows 
of  the  "Weldon  House. 

But  Mr.  Benoir,  gazing  reflectively  at  the  stormy 
day,  felt  very  comfortable.  His  room  was  such  a 
pleasant  one,  his  cigar  super-extra,  his  dinner  digest- 
ing easily — what  more  is  needed  to  make  man  happy? 
Down-stairs,  a  pretty  girl  was  dying  for  him — a  girl 
young   and  fresh  and  innocent,  and  whom  he  loved. 


MR.     BENOIR'8    DILEMMA. 


327 


Yes,  Mr.  Benoir  loved  pretty  Sophie  as  he  had  loved 
some  score  of  others  off  and  on  ;  and  which  lovinga 
had  never  come  to  anything.  But  this  time  the  fickle 
Troubadour  was  serious. 

"I'm  getting  old,"  thought  Mr.  Benoir,  looking 
contemplatively  out  at  two  or  three  young  ladies  pick- 
ing their  steps  through  the  muddy  street.  "  When  a 
man  gets  on  the  wrong  side  of  thirty  as  many  years  as 
I  have,  he  cannot  call  himself  young  any  longer.  I'm 
about  tired  of  knocking  around  this  big  world,  a  foot- 
ball for  fate  to  kick  at,  and  I  feel  as  though  I  should 
like  to  settle  down  for  good.  Now,"  Mr.  Benoir  pur- 
sued mentally,  lighting  another  cigar,  "  the  first  great 
step  toward  settling  down  is  to  get  married.  I  never 
had  much  of  an  opinion  of  matrimony  until  these  last 
few  weeks  ;  but  my  pretty  little  Sophie  is  an  angel,  or 
next  door  to  one.  It's  something  to  be  loved,  too,  as 
she  loves  me.  Not  but  what  I've  had  a  surfeit  of  it 
in  my  time.  There's  that  confounded  Rebecca,  and  be 
hanged  to  her !" 

Mr.  Benoir  smoked  with  vindictive  energy,  scowling 
at  the  rain,  as  the  image  of  Lucy  Sutherland's  tall 
housemaid  rose  before  him. 

"  I  thought  I  was  done  with  her,"  went  on  Mr. 
Benoir,  continuing  his  train  of  thought,  "when  I  jilted 
her  in  New  Orleans.  She's  one  of  your  high-stepping 
sort,  and  I  thought  her  too  proud  ever  to  give  me  an- 


1^  .\ 


I  '' 


Hi 


i^il 


i^iil 


*?      Ih 


1 


r:"i 


if,  'II, 


!■'  ! 


All' 


V  ! 


828 


MR.    BENOIR'S    JUILEMMA. 


other  thought.  But  le  grande  didblc  himself  could  not 
understand  these  women  !  Here  she  hunts  me  down  ; 
and  when  I  have  almost  ceased  to  remember  her,  turns 
up  at  the  very  worst  time  for  me,  ripe  and  ready  for  no 
end  of  mischief.  I  am  only  surprised  that  I  quieted 
her  so  easily  that  night,  when  she  rose  up  before  mo 
like  a  black  ghost.     I  shouldn't  have  expected  it." 

Mr.  Benoir  smoked  for  awhile,  musing  on  this  point ; 
and  having  surmounted  it,  went  on. 

"  Now,  I  might  concoct  a  story  for  the  prudish  old 
dame  down-stairs,  that  would  satisfactorily  account  for 
my  sudden  wealth,  and  get  her  consent  and  blessing, 
and  so  on  ;  but  what's  the  use  of  that,  with  this  tiger- 
cat  in  the  way  ?  No,  there  is  too  much  of  the  devil  in 
that  girl  to  be  braved.  If  that  unfortunate  little 
beauty,  Eulalie,  had  a  tithe  of  her  spirit,  I  would  have 
a  hard  fight  for  the  victory.  No,  I  cannot  defy  Ite- 
becca.  Sopliie  and  I  must  make  a  moonlight  flitting 
of  it — Yoimg  Lochinvar — that  style  of  thing,  rather  !" 

While  Mr.  Benoir  sat  absorbed  in  these  matrimonial 
reflections,  blue-eyed  Sophie,  down-stairs  in  the  parlor, 
sat  alone,  with  a  cloud  on  her  fair  face.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  gloom  of  the  gloomy  day  ;  perhaps  she  found 
her  own  thoughts  bad  company ;  or  perhaps  it  was  that 
her  handsome  Gaston  had  left  her  alone  since  morning. 
She  sat  embroidering  that  gossamer  bridal-handkerchief 
that  Lucy   Sutherland  had  admired,  frowning  at  the 


MR.     DENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


829 


rosebuds  and  forget-me-nots  all  the  while.  Her  sisters 
were  at  work  in  the  kitchon-caoinet ;  but  golden-haired 
Sophie,  the  beauty  and  pet,  was  also  the  lady  of  the 
family,  and  never  soiled  her  taper  fingers  with  anything 
harder  than  needlework. 

So  this  rainy  afternoon  she  sat,  looking  disconsolately 
out  at  the  dark,  forlorn  day,  in  the  intervals  of  her 
work,  thinking  of  her  hard  fate  in  having  such  an  ob- 
durate mother,  and  wondering  what  Mr.  Benoir  might 
be  about  up  in  his  chamber.  She  was  sitting  with  her 
back  to  the  door,  gazing  at  the  beating  rain,  and  sloppy 
streets,  when  a  familiar  step  in  the  hall  set  her  heart 
beating,  and  she  turned  round  as  the  door  opened. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?"  said  Miss  Weldon,  slightingly. 
"  I  thought  it  was  Fanny." 

"You  970uld  rather  it  was  Fanny,  wouldn't  you, 
now?"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  coming  forward  and  kissing 
the  pretty,  pouting  face  in  very  offhand  fashion.  "  You 
want  me  to  believe  that,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  It's  of  no  consequence  what  you  believe  1  Have 
you  been  asleep  all  day,  pray  ?" 

"  By  no  means.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  sleeping 
in  daytime." 

"What  have  you  been  about,  then?" 

"  Thinking,  my  dear." 

"  Of  what  ?" 

"  Of  you." 


.  iiii 


^ 


830 


MR.     BENOIB'8    DILEMMA. 


\y-  ft 


i 


:   ^1: 


.;i! 


iili! 


III 


.IMi 


'      I  ■ 


ill' 

:  !i 


"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Sophie,  relenting, 
with  a  smile,  nevertheless.  **  You  miglit  have  been 
down  here  with  me,  if  you  Uked." 

"  It  is  true  though,  Sophie.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you,  seriously.      Put  down  that  sewing,  and  listen  to 


)> 


me. 

Sophie  dropped  her  work,  and  looked  up  at  him, 
with  wondering  blue  eyes.  The  uplifted  face  looked 
60  fresh  and  blooming,  and  rosy  and  innocent,  that  Mr. 
Benoir  was  tempted  to  kiss  it  again,  by  way  of  preface. 
Accordingly,  he  did  so. 

"Is  that  what  you  call  talking  seriously,"  said 
Sophie,  blushing,  and  hitching  the  seat  further  back. 
"  Behave  yourself !" 

"  Sophie,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  gravely,  "  you  don't 
know  how  much  I  love  you  I" 

"Don't  I?"  said  Miss  Weldon.  "My  memory 
must  be  very  bad  then,  for  you  have  told  me  so  several 
times,  if  not  oftener." 

"  Sophie,"  continued  the  Troubadour,  waving 
down  the  interruption,  "  I  am  going  to  get  mar- 
ried !" 

"  To — "  Sophie  paused,  alarmed. 

"  To  yon,  my  pretty  blue-eyes,  if  you  will  many 
me  ;  to  some  one  else,  if  you  won't.  But  I  am  going 
to  be  married  before  the  new  moon  wanes." 

"  Dear  me  I"  said  Suj^hie,  pouting  again.     "  What's 


MR.     BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


831 


your  hurry  ?  Is  that  what  you  have  been  meditating 
on  all  day  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Sophie  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders,  disdainfully, 
but  Mr.  Benoir's  face  showed  he  was  quite  in  earnest, 
fle  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  leaned  forward. 

"  My  pretty  Sophie,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?" 

"  Oh,  Gaston  I" 

"  Will  you  be  my  wife,  Sophie  V 

"  Gaston,  you  know  mother  will  not  consent." 

"  Let  her  refuse,  then.  I  am  not  asking  mother, 
but  you.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  You  know — you  know  I  am  willing  enough," 
faltered  Sophie,  "  but  how  can  I  when  mother — " 

"  Oh,  confound  your  mother !  I  beg  your  pardon, 
my  dear  Sophie,  but  really  I  lose  patience  when  I  think 
of  that  absurd  old  woman.  What,  under  Heaven,  does 
she  want ;  surely  a  son-in-law  young,  rich,  and  hand- 
some, ought  to  satisfy  her,  and  I  flatter  myself  I  am 
all  these !" 

"  You  know  very  well  what  she  wants,"  said 
Sophie,  a  little  nettled  at  his  disrespect.  "  She  wants 
to  know  where  your  riches  come  from — and  so  do  I !" 

Mr.  Benoir  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  chucked 
Sophie's  dhnpled  chin. 

"  I  dare  say  you  do,  my  little  daughter  of  mother 
Eve.     Well,  when  we  are  a  year  and  a  day  married,  I 


^ 


! . '  . 


uo4 


MR.    DENOIWa    DILEMMA. 


V.   t 


!l    i 


sliall  tell  yon.  Oh,  don't  pnll  your  hands  away,  {«nd 
don't  look  so  deeply  displeased.  Dear  little  hand," 
said  Mr.  Benoir,  kissin<^  tlie  left  one,  "  how  well  a  wed- 
ding-ring would  hecome  it  1" 

Sophie  was  not  proof  against  this,  and  hid  a  very 
roseate  face  on  Mr.  Benoir's  coat-collar. 

"  Oh,  Gaston !  what  is  the  use  of  talking  ?  You 
know  I  can't  get  married !" 

"  Why  not,  my  darling  ?" 

"  Because  mother — " 

"  There  !"  cried  Mr.  Benoir,  imperiously,  "  I  won't 
have  it!  Let  mother  go  to  the — antipodes,  if  she  likes. 
You  can  marry  me,  if  you  love  me,  in  spite  of  fifty 
cantankerons  old  mothers." 

"  Gaston  Benoir,  stop  calling  my  mother  names,  if 
you  please.     IIow  ?" 

"  By  eloping !" 

"  Eloping !"  repeated  Miss  "Weldon,  aghast. 

"Yes,  my  love.  Ilunning  away  with  me,  you 
know,  and  being  married  by  special  license.  Come  ! 
don't  look  so  confounded  ;  other  girls  do  it  every  day, 
and  twice  as  much,  for  love,  and  why  not  you  ?" 

"  But — oh,  dear  me,  Gaston — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  have  taken  all  that  into  considera- 
tion ;  but  still  I  maintain  my  point.  I  love  you,  as  I 
have  told  you  once  or  twice  before,  if  you  remember, 
and  I  want  to  be  married,  and  this  is  the  only  way. 


MJi.     DENOin'8    DILEMMA. 


833 


That  unreasoniiblo  raotlior  of  yours  is  too  absurd  for 
aMytliin^,  so  I  leave  her  out  of  the  question.  You  had 
better  say  '  yes,'  for  1  never  learned  to  eourt." 

"  But  Gaston,  U)  run  away  is  so  shocking  !  "What 
would  everybody  say  ?  Oh,  dear  me !''  cried  Miss 
Weldon,  breathlessly. 

Mr.  Benoir  resolutely  lifted  the  flushed  face,  that 
was  dimpling  all  over  with  smiles,  in  spite  of  her  best 
efforts  to  look  unspeakably  shocked. 

"  Sophie,  do  you  hn'e  me  ?" 

"  Ye-e-es !" 

"  Well,  then,  don't  be  talking  nonsense!  Let  every- 
body say  what  everybody  pleases.  Mrs.  Gaston  Benoir 
off  on  her  bridal-tour  can  safely  snap  her  lingers  at 
them.     Come,  Sophie,  consent  1" 

"  Oh,  dear  me !"  said  Miss  Weldon,  distressed.  "  I 
don't  know  what  to  do,  I'm  sure  1" 

"  Arc  you  afraid  to  trust  me,  Sophie  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !" 

"  Then  consent,  or  let  us  part.  I  shall  never  ask 
you  again !" 

Sophie  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wouldn't 
speak.     Mr.  Benoir  arose  sternly. 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  afternoon,  Miss  Weldon.  I  see 
we  are  to  part." 

"  No,  no  1"  exclaimed  Sophie,  starting  up,  ahu'meJ, 


;s  1;; 


? 


rii 


)j  iij 


II   ! 


I      I 


I        ! 


•  ^     1 

^  1i  i 

334 


Mli.     DENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


as  lio  knew  rIic  would.  "  Don't  «^o,  Gaston  I  I  consent ; 
I  will  do  iinytliiiig,  only  don't  go!" 

"  That  is  my  darlinf]^,  sensible  little  girl!"  8aid  Mr. 
Benoir,  delighted,  and  of  course  rewarding  Sophie  with 
an  cnihraee.  *'  I  thought  you  would  come  to  it  1  Now, 
when  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !"  said  Sophie,  in  distress  again. 
"  It  seems  so  dreadful,  you  know  !" 

"  Pooh !  Stolen  kisses  are  always  sweetest.  Let 
me  see — not  this  week — I  can't  very  well,  but  next 
will  do.  Can  you  be  ready  by  the  middle  of  next 
week  V 

"  I  suppose  so.     But — oh,  dear  me,  Gaston — " 

"  There !"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  impatiently,  "  yon  have 
made  tliat  remark  several  times  before,  I  think.  Now 
for  details.  We  will  go  out  driving  some  morning  and 
forget  to  return.  A  convenient  clergyman  can  bo 
found  to  perform  the  ceremony  ;  and  then  you  aro 
Mrs.  Gaston  Benoir  as  fast  as  a  wedding-ring  can  make 
you,  and  accountable  to  no  one  but  me  for  your  actions. 
You  can  write  a  penitent  letter  to  your  mother  that 
will  melt  the  obdurate  old  lady  at  once.  Mothers  and 
fathers  always  come  round,  I  notice,  wlien  it's  of  no  use 
holding  out  any  longer." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Gaston?"  said  Scpliie, 
relenting. 

"  I  know  so,  my  dear.     Then  we  will  start  on  oui 


art  on  oiii 


MR.     DENOIIi'S    DILEMMA. 


838 


wedding-tour ;  it  shall  bo  wliero  you  please — Lapland, 
if  it  suits  you  best,  and  you  shall  see,  my  pretty  one, 
what  the  world  is  made  of  beyond  this  dull  littlo 
village." 

Sophie's  blue  eyes  sparkled. 

"I  shall  like  that !     But,  Gaston—" 

«  Well,  my  dear  ?" 

"  IIow  about  my  clothes.  I  shall  liave  nothing  to 
wear  ?" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Bcnoir,  jingling  a  handful 
of  eagles  in  his  pocket,  "  here  is  the  needful.  You 
shall  wear  satins  and  velvet  night  and  day,  if  it  pleases 
you." 

"You  are  a  darling,"  eaid  Sophie,  laughing 
and  blushing  ;  "  and  after  the  wedding-tour — what 
then  ?" 

"  Then  we  shall  come  back,  perhaps.  I  am  tired  of 
great  cities,  not  to  speak  of  being  too  well  known  there, 
and  this  quiet  place  soothes  a  fellow  somehow.  I  think 
I  shall  come  back,  and  buy  an  estate,  and  build  a  villa, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  buried  in  trees  and  flower- 
gardens,  and  turn  gentleman-farmer.  IIow  would  you 
like  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it !"  cried  Sophie,  enthusiastical- 
ly ;  "  but  are  you  really,  really  rich  enough  to  do  all 
this,  Gaston  ?" 

"  Really  rich  enough,  Mrs.  Benoir,  and  able  to  do 


mI 


li 


' 


i; !. 


ill; 


336 


MB.    BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


I'  ill 


;■■ 


;  i 


twice  as  mucli.  I  have  tlie  purse  of  Fortunatus  in  my 
vest-pocket." 

"  I  should  think  so !  Gaston,  dear,"  coaxingly, 
"  tell  mc  where  you  found  it." 

Gaston,  dear,  sealed  the  pleading  lips  in  very  lover- 
like fashion. 

"  Twelve  months  after  date  I  promise  to  tell  Mrs. 
Benoir  the  secret  of  my  wealth,  for  value  received. 
Don't  coax,  it  is  of  no  use.  That  is  all  settled  now — 
isn't  it  ?" 

"I  suppose  sol     You  have  everything  your  own 


way 


)) 


"  And  I  always  mean  to  have  I"  thought  Mr.  Benoir, 
but  he  did  not  say  so. 

"What  day  next  week  are  we  to — to — oh,  how 
dreadful  it  seems !"  cried  Sophie. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly — Wednesday  or  Thui'sday, 
very  likely.  Meantime,  you  will  say  nothing  of  this,  of 
course." 

"  Of  course  not !  Gaston,  I  wish — I  wish  we  were 
not  obliged  to  run  away  !" 

"  So  do  I,  my  pretty  fiancee^  but  necessity  knows 
no  law  ;  so  don't  distress  yourself.  And  now  I  think  I 
will  step  down-stairs  and  get  a  glass  or  wine  from 
mamma-in-law.  I  feel  very  thirsty  after  all  this  love- 
making  !" 

"  Come  back  soon,  Gaston,"  Sophie  said,  shyly. 


MR.    BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


337 


sh  we  were 


"  All  right,"  said  easy  Mr.  Benoir,  sauntering  out 
of  the  parlor,  humming  a  tune. 

Long  after  he  left  her,  Sophie  Weldon  sat  tliere  in 
a  blissful  dream.  It  was  all  very  proper,  and  very 
maidenly,  of  course,  to  be  shocked  and  horriiied,  and  so 
forth,  at  a  proposal  to  elope ;  but  for  all  that,  little  ec- 
static thrills  were  vibrating  through  her  heart  at  the 
thought.  ]^ot  to  speak  of  the  romance  (and  who  ever 
knew  of  a  girl  of  eighteen  who  did  not  think  of  the  ro- 
mance ?),  not  to  speak  of  the  delight  of  being  married 
(and  who  ever  knew  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  or  twenty- 
eight,  either,  who  did  not  want  to  be  married  '^),  there 
was  the  glorious  prospect  of  seeing  for  the  first  time 
the  great  outer  world,  of  which  she  had  read  and  heard 
80  much.  She  would  be  a  rich  man's  wife — and  such  a 
man,  too !  How  proud  she  would  be  of  him,  so  hand- 
some, so  elegant,  so  gentlemanly,  and  such  a  wonderful 
cinger.  She  would  live  in  a  lovely  villa,  with  servants 
to  come  at  her  beck ;  with  a  lady's  maid  ;  perhaps  a  car- 
riage to  lide  in,  and  satin  morning-wrappers,  very  like- 
ly. Plow  the  young  ladies  of  St.  Mary's  would  envy 
her — they  did  that  now  with  right  good  will,  but  how 
much  more  so  then !  Who  knew  even  what  society 
she  might  not  get  into  ?  She  and  that  dark,  beautiful 
Mrs.  Arthur  S'ltherland,  whom  she  admired  beyond 
everything,  might  be  bosom  i^i^icnds  yet.  A  vision  rose 
before  Sophie — the  long  drawing-room  at  Maplewood  ; 
15 


338 


MR.     BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


V  i 


|l 


■'il 


I     .1    w 


she  had  seen  it  once,  and  its  nntold  splendor  had 
haunted  her  ever  since.  Mrs.  Sutherland  at  the  piano  ; 
and  she  (Mrs.  Benoir)  resplendent  in  blue  velvet  and 
diamond  necklace,  listening,  while  Mr.  Sutherland  and 
Mr.  Benoir  smoked  their  cigars  on  the  lawn,  and  Mr. 
Benoir  looked  h^-  far  the  handsomer  of  the  two. 

Sophie's  castle  in  the  air  went  up  faster  than  ever 
Aladdin's  palace  did.  The  common  hotel-parlor,  with 
its  faded  carpet  and  shabby  chairs  ;  the  muddy,  sloppy, 
deserted  street ;  the  ceaseless  rain  and  raw  wind,  were 
all  alike  lost  to  view  for  the  time,  and  Sophie  was  hap- 
py. "What  a  splendid  fellow  her  lover  was ! — so  like 
one  of  those  dear,  delightful,  mysterious,  dark-looliing 
brigands,  she  loved  so  much  to  read  about.  He  was 
handsome  enough,  and  good  enough,  Sophie  knew,  for 
a  king,  and — 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear  Gaston !  how  much  T  love  you  !" 
she  thought,  with  t^e  rosy  light  in  her  face  again. 

Something  brought  her  meditations  to  an  end  there 
— a  curious  figure  fluttering  along  in  the  chilly  wind. 
A  tall  woman,  so  'ender  as  to  make  her  height  re- 
markable, dressed  in  black,  and  wearing  a  black  vail 
down  over  her  face.  Sophie  looked  at  her  curiously — 
the  woman  came  steadily  on  through  the  wet  and 
windy  twilight. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Sophie,  aloud,  "  she  is  coming 
here !" 


MR.     BENOIR'8    DILEMMA. 


3;]n 


B  is  coming 


Two  minutes  after,  the  parlor-door  opened,  and 
Fanny  Weldon  came  in. 

"  Sopliie,  are  you  here  ?  Oh,  yes  !  Please  step  this 
way,  ma'am.  Sophie,  here's  a  lady  says  she  wants  to 
866  you  " 

"  To  see  me  ?"  said  Sojihie,  rising  in  her  surprise, 
as  the  tall  woman  in  black  came  forward  into  the 
room. 

"  Yes,  quite  alone,  if  you  please,"  said  a  voice  be- 
Innd  the  vail. 

Fanny  took  the  hint,  and  retreated.  Sophie,  still  in 
a  state  of  surprise,  presented  a  chair. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  said  Sophie,  and  not 
knowing  what  else  to  say,  paused,  and  sat  down  herself. 

Tlie  woman  in  black  took  the  seat,  but  still  kce2:)ing 
her  vail  down,  and  staring  at  her  through  it,  as  Sophie 
felt. 

"  You  are  Miss  Sophie  "Weldon  ?"  said  the  visitor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sophie. 

The  mysterious  lady  threw  back  her  vail,  and  Sophie 
saw  a  face  she  had  never  seen  before,  and  which  she 
never  forgot.  So  handsome  and  so  haggard,  so  dark 
and  so  fierce,  with  great  hollow  black  eyes,  and  thin, 
compressed  lips. 

"  You  don't  know  me  ?"  sr.id  the  visitor,  staring  in 
a  most  uncomfortable  manner  out  of  those  wild,  black 
eyes. 


I  •- 


r,m 


I     < 


340 


MR     BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


i     i; 


I 


I 


'I  I 


;-;i  ! 


"  No,"  said  Sophie,  "  I  don't.  I  never  saw  you  be- 
fore, to  the  best  of  my  knowledge." 

"  Nor  licard  of  me  ?     My  name  is  Rebecca  Isaacs." 

"  ISTor  heard  of  you,"  said  Sophie,  more  and  more 
surprised. 

"  Ah!"  said  the  o^vner  of  the  black  eyes,  "  I  thought 
perhaps  you  had,  knowing  Gaston  Bcnoir,  who  knows 
me  so  well." 

"  Mr.  Benoir  ?"  said  Sophie,  startled  strangely  by 
the  manner  of  her  visitor  ;  "  he  knows  you — does  he  ?" 

"  Knows  mo !"  repeated  her  visitor  with  a  laugh 
that  sounded  uncomfortably  hard  and  mirthless  ;  "  oh, 
yes  !  Mr.  Benoir  knows  me  very  well !  You  are  to  be 
married  to  him,  I  hear." 

"  Ma'am  !"  faltered  Sophie,  very  much  scared. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  I  beg,  Miss  Weldon !  I  won't 
hurt  you,  and  there  is  no  need  of  that  frightened  face. 
Yes,  I  licard  that  you  were  going  to  be  married  to 
Gaston  Benoir,  and  I  came  here  to  see." 

"And  what  business  is  it  of  yours ?"  arose  to 
Sophie's  lips ;  but  the  dark,  haggard  face,  and  big, 
glittering,  black  eyes,  looked  so  startling  in  the  twilight, 
that  her  courage  failed  her. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  know  ?"  she  asked,  quite 
tremblingly,  instead. 

"  Because  I  came  to  forbid  the  marriage.  Gaston 
Benoir  can  never  make  you  his  wife." 


MR,     BENOIR'8    DILEMMA. 


341 


Soi^liie  gave  a  gasj)ing  cry,  and  tlieu  sat  spell-l)ound. 

"  He  cannot  marry  you,"  reiterated  the  woman  in 
black,  "  because  he  is  bound  to  another — to  me  I" 

"Are  you  his  wife?"  Sophie  gasped,  rather  than 
said. 

"  No  !"  said  tlie  woman ;  "  no  wedding  ring  ever 
crossed  my  finger ;  \mi  lie  is  bound  to  me  by  every  tie 
of  honor  and  truth — by  every  solemn  promise  that  man 
can  give.  He  belongs  to  me,  and  tome  alone.  I  should 
have  been  his  wife,  long,  long  ago,  if  he  were  anything 
but  a  false-hearted,  lying  scoundrel.  He  has  no  right 
to  marry  another,  and  he  never  shall  T' 

The  suppressed  vehemence  of  her  tone  and  tlie 
white  fury  throbbing  in  her  face  were  indescribal)le. 
Poor  Sophie  shrank  away  from  her,  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands.  Her  visitor  looked  at  her  with  no  touch 
of  pity  in  her  flaming  black  eyes. 

"  If  you  are  crying  for  him,"  she  said,  bitterly, 
"you  had  better  dry  your  tears,  he  is  not  worth  one. 
He  has  deceiv^ed  me  as  basely  and  cruelly  as  ever  wo- 
man was  deceived.  He  has  deceived  you;  for,  no 
longer  ago  tlian  last  week,  he  promised  solemnly  to 
marry  none  but  me.     When  were  you  to  be  his  wife  ?" 

"  Next  week,"  Sophie  sobbed,  in  an  outburst  of 
girlish  distress.  "  Oh,  dear  me !  dear  me !  I  wiffh  I 
had  never  been  born  !" 

"  Bah !"  cried   the  woman,  with   supreme  scorn ; 


l.i  '^1 


•  1  ti.i 


'.  ff; 


842 


MR.     BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


I  I  I 


a        :'i     ■! 


I      (■ 


"  what  do  you  cold-blooded  creatures  liero  in  tlic  North 
know  of  love,  and  passion,  and  hate,  and  misery,  such 
as  we — such  as  I  feel  ?  You  sit  there  crying  now,  as 
you  would  cry,  I  dare  say,  for  a  party,  or  a  new  bonnet 
you  had  lost,  and  forget  your  trouble  a  month  after  in 
a  new  lover,  as  you  would  in  a  new  bonnet.  If  I  could 
weep  as  you  do,  I  might  forgive  Gaston  Benoir.  I 
might  leave  this  place,  and  let  him  marry  his  latest 
fancy.  But  I  cannot  weep,  and  I  cannot  forgive  I 
AVhere  is  he  V 

"Down  stairs,"  said  Sophie,  whose  handkerchief 
was  quite  drenched  with  tears ;  "he  will  be  here  in  a 
little  while.  Wait  until  he  comes  ;  and  if  what  you 
say  be  true,  let  him  choose  between  lis.  I  am  sure  I 
cannot  say  fairer  than  that." 

Sophie's  sobs  here  quite  drowned  her  voice,  and  her 
visitor  broke  into  a  short,  disagreeable  laugh. 

"  Yes,  yes,  let  it  be  as  you  say ;  let  him  choose  be- 
tween us.     Ah  !  here  he  comes !" 

A  quick  step  was  taking  the  stairs  three  at  a  time, 
and  he  came  noisily  into  the  room,  whistling  an  opera- 
tune.  It  was  so  dark,  coming  out  of  the  lighted  hall 
into  the  dim  parlor,  that  Mr.  Benoir  only  saw  the  figure 
sitting  in  the  chair,  and  not  the  other,  crouching  on  a 
low  stool,  its  face  hidden  in  its  hands.  Perhaps,  too, 
the  wine  he  had  drank — and  he  had  drank  a  good  deal 


\ 


ME.    BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


843 


— had  raised  his  spirits  and  dimmed  his  vision,  for  he 
caught  the  figure  in  the  chair  rapturously  in  his  arms. 

"  My  darling  Sophie  !"  he  cried  ;  "  all  in  the  dark  ? 
Why,  what's  this  ?  Bonnet  and  shawl  on,  and  quite 
wet !   Now  you  never  mean  to  say  you  have  been  outf 

Sophie  gave  a  little  gasp  of  consternation,  and  rose 
uj).  The  woman  in  the  cliair  arose  at  the  same  instant, 
and  1^  '  ng  him  off  so  violently''  that  he  reeled  back. 

"  You  have  made  a  slight  mistake,  Mr.  Benoir,"  said 
a  terribly  familiar  voice.  "  I  don't  happen  to  be  your 
darling  Sophie,  so  you  had  better  reserve  your  em- 
braces." 

"  The  devil !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Benoir,  greeting  her 
in  his  amazement  as  he  had  greeted  her  once  before; 
"  Rebecca !" 

"  Exactly,"  said  Rebecca.  "  I  see  you  recognize 
me,  although  it  is  dark,  and  so  does  Miss  Weldon. 
Perhaps  we  had  better  have  a  ligiit,  that  you  may  make 


sure. 


?) 


Sophie  was  already  lighting  the  lamp.  As  she 
placed  it  on  the  table,  she  saw  her  lover  standing,  pale 
and  confounded,  staring  at  her  dark  visitor,^  whose 
fierce  black  eyes  never  winked.  Only  for  a  moment. 
Mr.  Benoir  was  not  easily  discom])Osed  at  any  time, 
and  the  wine  he  had  drank  warmed  his  courage. 

*'  I  say,  Sophie,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  frightened 


>ik':] 


,      1 


844 


MR.     BENOIWS    DILEMMA. 


Ml     I 


f«'    I'll  ! 


i!     t 


kr 


and  tearful  fiancee,  "  who  is  this  ?  An  escaped  Bed- 
lamite ?" 

Rebecca  walked  up  to  him  with  bo  tigerish  a  glare 
that  involuntarily  he  recoiled. 

"  Gaston  Benoir,"  she  hissed  rather  than  said,  "  you 
know  mo  and  I  know  you.  I  know  you  for  a  liar,  a 
swindler,  a  gambler,  and  a  scoundrel !  "What  do  you 
know  mo  for?" 

"  A  sho-devil !"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  "  if  ever  there  was 
one.  Suppose  I  do  know  yon,  what  the  deuce  do  you 
mean  by  coming  here  and  frightening  this  3'oung  lady 
into  fits  ?" 

"  Oh,  Gaston !"  cried  Sophie,  clinging  to  him,  and 
melting  into  another  outburst  of  tears,  "  she  has  been 
saying  the  most  dreadful  things.  She  says  yon  have 
deceived  her  and  deceived  me." 

"Deceived  you!"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "  I  should  like  to  know  how  she  makes  that 
out  ?" 

"  She  says — she  says,"  sobbed  Sophie,  "  that  you 
promised  to  marry  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Benoir,  "  suppose  I  did,  and  s'lp- 
posing  I  repent  of  this  promise,  what  then  ?" 

He  looked  full  at  Eebecca,  liis  handsome  face  con- 
temptuous, defiant.  Rebecca  stood  like  a  black  marble 
stutue,  her  face  all  white  and  rigid,  her  black  eyes 
flamint):  like  burnint^  stars. 


j-y. 


'f^. . V'^ 


MR.     BENOIirS    DILI-:  MM  A. 


345 


"  Yes,'-  she  repeated,  slowly.     "  Wluvt  tlien  ?" 

"Why,  then,  she  may  go  to  Old  Nick,  v/licre  she 
belongs,  for  me,''  replied  tlie  ex-Troubadour.  "  Sopliie, 
my  little  darling,  stop  crying.  You'll  swell  your  faco 
aud  redden  your  eyes  and  nose,  and  won't  look  pretty, 
you  know.  Miss  llebeeca  Isaacs,  or  Stone,  or  whatever 
you  choose  to  call  yourself,  it  is  going  to  be  a  stormy 
night,  and  j^itch-dark,  and  the  sooner  you  are  on  the 
road  home  the  better." 

The  wine  Mr.  Benoir  had  drank  had  made  him  fool- 
hardy indeed,  or,  knowing  this  woman  as  he  did,  he 
never  would  have  dared  to  talk  like  this.  She  stood 
before  him  ominously  calm,  never  taking  her  jet-black 
eyes  off  his  face — eyes  that  had,  in  the  lamplight,  a 
horribly  wolfish,  hungry  glare. 

"And  this  is  all  you  have  to  say  to  mc,  Gaston — to 
me,  Rebecca  Isaacs  ?" 

"  All,  Miss  Isaacs !" 

"  And  a  few  nights  ago,  you  swore  that  I,  and  I 
only,  should  be  your  wife." 

"'  Did  I  ?  Well,  I  wanted  to  keep  you  quiet,  I  sup- 
pose, and  I  knew"  that  would  do  it.  I  didn't  mean  it, 
you  know,  and  I  don't." 

"  And  you  mean  to  marry  her?" 

Mr.  Bonoir  encircled  Sophie  with  his  arm,  and  bent 
and  kissed  the  tearful  face  hiding  itself  on  his  shoulder. 
16* 


mm 


840 


MR.     BENOIR'S    DILEMMA. 


"  My  pretty  Sophie  ?  Yes,  I  mean  to  marry  lior. 
Don't  you  admire  my  taste,  Itebecca  ?  Don't  you  thini<' 
I  sliall  have  a  cliarming  little  wife  ?" 

Itebecca  Isaacs  walked  to  the  door.  "With  her  hand 
on  the  knol),  she  turned  and  looked  at  him.  Such  u 
look  !  In  cither  eye  sat  a  devil.  Even  Mr.  Benoir 
was  discomposed ;  but,  before  he  could  speak,  she  did. 

"  You  have  made  your  choice,  Gaston,"  die  said,  iu 
that  suppressed  voice  of  hers.  "  You  have  told  the 
truth  for  once.  Miss  Weldon,  I  congratulate  you. 
Don't  you  l)e  afraid  of  n\y  ever  coming  here  to  alann 
you  again.  I  have  heard  all  I  wanted  to  hear,  and  am 
nmch  obliged  to  your  future  husband  for  his  candor. 
Mr.  Benoir,  good  night." 

"  Bebecca !"  he  calL'^d,  startled  strangely  by  the  tone 
in  which  she  spoke,  by  the  awful  light  in  her  eyes,  but 
Bebecca  was  gone.  Out  in  the  wind  and  rain,  flitting 
along  like  a  dark  ghost  through  the  blind,  blajk  night. 


I     i 


DEEPENING    MYSTERT. 


847 


CHAPTER  XXII, 


DEEPENING    MYSTERY. 


ISS  SUTHERLAND  and  Rebecca,  the 
lionscnuiid,  hud  had  aiiotlier  interview  on 
the  morninfi^  after  that  coniidential  talk  in 
the  former's  room.  This  time  it  was  sohc- 
ited  by  Rebecca,  and  the  two  had  come  to  a  thorough 
understanding.  The  housemaid  had  spoken  with  re- 
markable plainness  ;  and  though  Lucy's  blue  eyes  had 
glittered  a  little,  she  had  taken  it  all  in  very  good  part. 
"  We  had  better  understand  one  another  perfectly, 
Miss  Sutherland,"  Rebecca  said.  "  I  know  your  mo- 
tive in  wishing  to  ferret  out  the  secret  between  your 
cousin's  wife  and  Gaston  Benoir.  You  hate  Mrs. 
Sutherland,  and  you  would  get  her  in  your  power  if 
you  could,  and  I  don't  think  you  will  be  over-particular 
as  to  the  means.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  am 
right — admission  could  not  make  my  belief  stronger,  as 
denial  could  not  make  it  weaker." 

"  You  are  bold  !"  said  Lucy  Sutherland,  looking  at 
her  with  that  pale  glitter  in  her  light  eyes. 


i±y^ 


848 


DEEPENING    MYSTEliY. 


\     ?  1 


i « 


I 


"  Yes,  Miss  Siitlic rial  1(1 ;  a  woman  is  generally  bokl 
when  rIic  is  reckless  and  desperate.  I  am  both,  if  what 
you  said  last  night  be  true.  Perhaps  you  don't  under- 
stand these  things ;  but  when  a  woman  like  me,  hot- 
'  blooded  and  passionate,  sets  her  wliole  heart  on  one 
stake  and  loses,  she  is  not  apt  to  be  over-particular  what 
she  says  or  does.  If  you  choose,  after  this,  to  let  me 
remain  here  in  my  character  of  housemaid,  we  may  in- 
directly further  each  other's  ends ;  if  you  don't — why, 
no  matter.  I  can  go  elsewhere.  I  came  here,  not  for 
the  situation  of  chambermaid.  Miss  Sutherland,  but  to 
attain  an  object,  as  you  have  already  suspected.  That 
object  I  have  attained  ;  and  if  what  you  told  me  be 
correct,  I  shall  jjrobably  leave  this  place  very  soon." 

"Rebecca,"  Miss  Sutherland  exclaimed,  with  irre- 
pressible curiosity,  "  who  are  you — what  are  you  ?  You 
are  more  of  a  mystery  than  even  I  took  you  to  be !" 

"  I  need  be  no  mystery ;  and  there  is  very  little  ro- 
mance in  my  life.  I  am  of  Jewish  descent ;  and, 
through  Gaston  Benoir's  business  transactions  with  my 
father,  I  first  knew  him.  I  have  ne  ther  father  nor 
mother  now.  If  my  father  had  left  me  as  wealthy  at 
his  death  as  it  was  supposed  he  would  have  done,  I 
should  have  been  that  man's  wife  before  this.  But  I 
was  no  heiress,  and  Gaston  Benoir  deserter^  me  1" 

"  Y^es,"  said  Lucy,  "  for  little  Sophie  Weldou,  who 
is  no  heiress  either." 


DEEPENING    MVS  TEIi  V. 


310 


"  I  shall  soon  ascertain  tliat,"  said  Rebecca,  not  los- 
ing her  ominous  calm.  "  What  I  want  to  say  to  you, 
Miss  Sutherhiud,  is  this.  I  can  further  your  ends  ])y 
remaining  here,  if  you  will  permit  me.  Sliall  I  re- 
main ?" 

"My  ends!"  said  Lucy,  with  a  strange  look. 
"  What  are  my  ends  ?" 

"  The  destruction  of  your  cousin's  wifcl" 

"  Rebecca !" 

"  Oh,  Miss  Sutherland,  I  quite  understand.  If  you 
say  remain,  I  renuiin.  If  you  say  go,  I  go.  I  am 
alone  in  the  world,  and  a  reckless  woman.  I  don't 
much  care  what  becomes  of  me ;  and  I  can  accomplish 
what  lies  before  me  elsewhere  as  well  as  here." 

"  What  lies  before  you  !  I  don't  understand  you, 
Rebecca." 

"It  is  not  necessary  you  should,"  said  Rebecca, 
with  a  dark  look.     "  Shall  I  go  or  stay  ?" 

"  Stay,"  said  Miss  Sutherland,  "  and  act  as  you 
please  ;  but,  remember,  whatever  happens,  I  am  no  ac- 
complice of  yours.  I  know  nothing  of  your  designs, 
and  wish  to  know  nothing.  Your  suspicions  may  bo 
erroneous  or  correct ;  but  they  are  only  suspicious.  I 
admit  nothing.  While  you  remain  here,  you  are  free 
to  go  and  come  as  you  please ;  but  it  were  better  to 
give  tlie  other  servants  no  grounds  for  gossip.  You 
understand  ?" 


■i  •■' 


I' 


r 


'J 


w 


'  M 


"•'  1 


!i  'II 


Pi': 
I': 


;i 


850 


DEEPENING    MYSTERY. 


I'liiii' 


"  I  understand.  I  admire  your  prudence,  and  am 
jnn.'.h  obliged  to  you." 

Rebecca  bent  her  head,  and  quitted  the  room.  All 
tliat  day  her  housemaid's  duties  were  performed  as 
usual.  There  was  notliing  to  find  fault  with,  nothing 
slighted  or  left  undone.  The  kitchen-cabinet  discov- 
ered, perhaps,  that  the  dark,  inscrutable  face  of  the  un- 
social housemaid  was  darker  and  gloomier  even  than 
usual ;  but  they  had  a  wholesome  awe  of  those  fierce 
black  eyes  of  hers,  and  prudently  criticised  at  a  safe 
distance.  Later  in  the  afternoon,  without  asking  per- 
mission or  speaking  to  any  one,  she  had  dressed  and 
gone  out  in  the  rain;  and  Lucy,  quietly  observant,  had 
guessed  her  errand. 

The  night  set  in,  wild,  and  wet,  and  windy.  Lucy, 
for  some  cause,  grew  strangely  nervous  about  the  absent 
housemaid.  Every  blast  of  stormy  wind  that  roared 
throuiJ:h  the  rockino;  trees  and  shook  the  old  stone 
house  vibrated  aloncj  her  nerves  with  a  fear  that  was 
nameless.  Sucli  a  stormy  night,  and  such  a  long,  deso- 
Inte  walk  for  that  girl  back  from  the  village.  Suppose 
phe  and  Gaston  Benoir  had  met — and  to  meet  him  Lucy 
tolt  certain  had  been  her  errand — suppose  they  quar- 
reled, as  quarrel  they  were  sure  to  do.  Suppose  he 
f (allowed  her  along  thar,  dark,  forsaken  road,  and  the 
mysterious  housemaid  disappeared  as  suddenly  and 
ijiyatoriously  as  she  had  appeared.     Months,  perhaps, 


ii'iiii 


DEEPENING    MYSTERY. 


351 


after  tliis,  a  woman's  body  would  be  found,  with  a 
grisly  gash  across  the  throat,  and  some  tattered  frag 
ments  of  a  black  dress,  to  identify  Kebecca  Stone! 
Lucy  Sutherland  whitened  at  the  thought,  and  waited 
with  a  nervous  anxiety  she  had  never  felt  before  in  her 
life  for  the  cDuiing  of  her  servant. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  storm  was  raging  wild 
and  tempestuous  before  Kebecca  came.  Lucy  met  her 
on  the  stairs,  drenched  from  ]iead  to  foot  with  the 
soaking  rain,  splashed  with  mud,  pale,  haggard,  and 
v/retched-looking.  All  her  beauty  seemed  to  have 
gone  in  a  few  short  hours.  No  one  would  have  called 
the  hollow-eyed  vision,  dripping  with  wet,  handsome 
now. 

*'  Rebecca !     Rebecca !"    Lucy    said,     breathlessly, 
where  have  you  been  such  a  night  ?" 

The  girl  looked  at  her  with  a  weird  light  in  her 
spectral  eyes. 

"You  know,"  she  said  ;  "  to  St.  Mary's." 

"  You  are  soaking  wet,"  said  Miss  Sutherland, 
hastily,  and  with  very  uncommon  solicitude.  "  Go  to 
your  room  at  once,  and  change  your  clothes." 

Rebecca  obeyed  the  first  part  of  this  injunction  by 
brushing  past  and  going  to  her  room.  But  not  to 
change  her  cluthc;:.  She  seated  herself  by  the  window 
in  her  dripping  garments,  and  there  kept  vigil  the  long 
night  through.     Gaston  Benoir,  in  his  hotel  chamber, 


iv. 


':  i:   I 


i,   w 


H'^l 


■f    J;il!l 


ri 


I 


!  ::'! ' 


I        \t 


1      ' 


353 


DEEPENING    MYSTERY. 


sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just,  might  perhaps  have  ha'.l 
his  dreams  disturbed  had  he  known  of  that  ghostly 
niglit- watch,  and  the  thoughts  the  deceived  Jewess  was 
thinking. 

For  the  rest  of  the  week,  Rebecca  was  the  same 
inscrutable  mystery  to  all  as  before.  She  went  through 
her  daily  tasks  with  faultless  and  painstaking  precision 
— she  was  civilly  attentive  when  spoken  to,  but  she 
never  addressed  any  one  of  her  own  accord,  and  never 
lingered  a  moment  in  the  kitchen  among  her  fellows, 
save  when  it  was  absolutely  necessary.  She  sat  at  the 
window  when  her  day's  duties  were  done,  gazing  out 
with  her  glittering  black  eyes,  staring  at  vacancy,  and  a 
look  of  fierce,  steady  purpose  in  the  compressed  mouth. 
In  the  keeping  of  these  silent  watches,  the  fierce,  sup- 
pressed spirit  within  her  wore  her  to  a  shadow  ;  but  to 
all  Miss  Sutherland's  solicitous  inquiries,  she  always 
answered  "  No,  she  was  not  ill ;  she  was  perfectly 
well."  What  the  silent,  passionate-hearted  girl  suffered 
during  these  days  and  nights,  her  haggard  face  and 
hollow  eyes  alone  told. 

Some  one  else  in  that  old  gray  stone  mansion  was 
waning,  too,  like  the  waning  moon.  Eulalie  moved 
about  the  house  slowly  and  wearily,  more  like  a  spirit 
than  a  woman.  Iler  wan,  moonlight  face  startled  you, 
out  of  those  profuse  jetty  ringlets,  and  the  large,  dark 
eyes  looked  at  you  with  a  wistful  moumfulness,  vety 


DEEPENINO    MTSTEllT. 


853 


tvess  was 


sad  to  see.  The  sweet,  low  laugh,  the  soft  singing  in 
the  blue  summer  twilight,  no  longer  made  music  in  the 
old  rooms.  The  sunshine  seemed  to  have  faded  out  of 
her  young  life  forever,  and  seeing  her  in  moonlight  or 
twilight,  so  small,  so  wan,  so  fragile,  you  v/ould  have 
looked  to  see  her  float  away  in  the  palv3  mist,  like  any 
other  spirit. 

Arthur  Sutherland  watched  his  wife  fading  away, 
day  by  day,  before  his  eyes,  with  a  trouble  ITeaven 
only  knew.  He  could  guess  the  cause — this  hidden, 
miserable  secret — the  mysterious  power  that  unknown 
man  at  St.  Mary's  held  over  her,  and  from  which  she 
would  give  him  no  right  to  shield  her.  He  had  not 
spoken  of  it  to  her  since  ;  but  he  never  ceased  to  think 
of  it — to  bewilder  himself  over  it  all  day  long,  and  to 
have  it  disturb  his  dreams  by  night.  There  was  a 
mournful  tenderness  in  his  love  and  care  for  her  now, 
an  unceasing  watchfulness,  that  was  very  like  her 
grandfather  in  the  old  days.  lie  was  so  unhappy,  and 
so  solicitous  to  hide  that  unhappincss,  and  appear  as 
he  used  to  be,  that  his  heart  never  knew  peace  of  late ; 
and  it  seemed  to  himself,  when  he  was  alone,  that 
he  took  off  a  mask  and  stopped  some  weary  piece  of 
acting. 

One  evenino',  almost  a  week  after  that  niM)*^  of 
storm  and  wind,  on  which  Rebecca,  the  housemaid,  had 
disturbed  Mr.  Benoir's  wooing  a  little,  he  sauntered  out 


:i.ii 


:;!UJ 


854 


DEEPENING    MYSTERY. 


i  I, 


!!        : 


into  the  sunset  to  smoke  an  after-dinner  cigar.  A 
brilliant  snnset,  the  whole  Western  sky  rosy  with  its 
glory,  and  billows  of  pur23le  and  gold  sailing  through 
fleecy  white.  He  turned  his  face  terrace-ward,  and  the 
sea  S2)read  out  before  him  with  the  reflected  hues  of  the 
gunset  gorgeous  on  its  placid  face. 

The  summer  breeze  was  deliciously  cool,  and  camr 
sweet  with  the  scent  of  rose  and  iasmine  and  southern 
wood.  Sea  and  sky  melted  away  far  off  into  purple 
mist,  in  and  out  of  which  ships  flitted  like  phantoms, 
with  their  white  wings  spread.  The  hush  of  eventide 
lay  over  all,  and  a  pale  young  crescent-moon  glimmered 
in  the  blue  arch  overhead.  The  beauty  of  the  summer 
sunset  was  indescribable,  and  leaning  over  the  iron 
railing  of  the  terrace,  as  he  had  seen  her  so  often  be- 
fore, stood  Eulalie,  as  he  was  never  in  this  world  to  see 
her  again.  Long,  long  after,  that  vision  came  back 
in  other  summer-sunsets — that  little  frail  figure  robed 
in  white,  w^ith  a  shawl  of  crimson  silk  trailing 
off  in  the  grass,  and  the  feathery  black  ringlets  fall- 
ing low^ 

She  looked  up  with  a  welcoming  smile  as  he  di-ew 
near  ;  but  she  was  so  colorless,  so  thin,  so  worn,  that  it 
went  to  his  hear:..  The  great  dark  eyes  had  a  look  of 
utter  weariness,  as  if  the  soul  loooking  out  of  their 
mournful  depths  were  tired  of  the  struggle  and  longed 
to  be  free. 


JDEEPEI^TNG    MYSTERY. 


355 


"  My  pale  little  wife,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  what 
shall  I  do  to  keep  you  from  fading  away  into  a  spirit, 
lis  you  are  doing  f 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  loving  compassion 
of  his  tone,  and  she  clasped  her  thin  hands  round 
his  arm. 

"  Arthur,  dear,"  sh^  said,  "  how  good  you  are  to 
me ;  how  true,  how  patient,  how  loving ;  and  how  un- 
grateful I  am  in  return." 

"  Ungrateful,  my  love  !     Oh,  no !" 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Arthur,  while  I  stood  here, 
how  happy — oh,  how  very  happy — I  have  been  in  this 
place.  My  whole  life  seems  to  come  back  to  me  to- 
night, and  I  wonder  why  I  should  have  been  so  blessed, 
while  thousands  of  others  more  deserving  drag  out 
their  lives  in  misery,  and  want,  and  wretchedness.  I 
have  been  too  happy,  Arthur ;  and  I  have  not  been 
good,  I  have  not  deserved  it,  and  so  I  have  no  reason 
to  complain  now." 

''  You  not  good,  my  darling,"  he  said,  mournfully  ; 
"  my  precious  wife,  you  have  been  the  good  angel  of 
all  who  ever  knew  you." 

"  Xo,"  said  the  little  Creole,  shaking  her  head, 
penitently  ;  ''  no,  I  have  not  been  so  good  as  I  should 
have  been.  I  know  you  must  think  it  very,  very  bad 
of  me,  Arthur,  that  I  do  not  tell  you  this  secret  of  my 


m 


\  ''% 


!      I 


4 


^  •   :^ 


I,  «■ 

;     I  .  I 


356 


DEEPENING    MYSTERY. 


i 


m 


life  now.  But  I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  and  yet  you  trust 
and  love  me  still." 

"  I  will  trust  and  love  you  until  death,  my  darling." 

"  My  poor  dear,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  in- 
finite compassion,  "  you  may  not  have  to  trust  and  love 
me  very  long  then,  after  all." 

"  Eulalie !  Eulalie !  what  are  you  saying  ?"  he  cried, 
in  affright.     ^'  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Arthur,  dear,  would  it  grieve  you  very  much,  very, 
very  much,  to  lose  ine?" 

"  To  lose  you,  Eulalie  ?" 

"  Yes,  Arthur — if  I  should  die  !" 

He  caught  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  his  face  as 
white  as  her  dress. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Eulalie,  don't  say  such  things !  I 
couldn't  hear  it — I  will  not  lose  you !  Let  me  take  you 
away  from  here  !  Let  me  take  you  to  Cuba — to  Europe 
— anywhere  out  of  this — anywhere  from  this  man  2" 

Again  she  shook  lier  head. 

"  It  would  do  no  good,  Arthur.  lie  would 
follow  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  wreak  his  re- 
venge !" 

"  His  revenge  !  My  love,  how  did  you  ever  in- 
jure him  ?" 

"  I,  Arthur !  Oh,  it  is  not  that — it  is  not  I  who 
injured  him  1  But  it  is  all  the  same — the  punishment 
falls  on  me !     Arthur — dearest,  best  husband  that  ever 


DEEPENING    M  YS  TEIi  Y. 


357 


I  ever  m- 


was  in  this  world — it  is  very  hard ;  but  1  fear,  I 
fear  we  must  part  soon.  Oh,  Arthur !  once  1 
thought  as  you  do — that  I  cnuld  not  lose  you  ;  and 
yet  now — " 

Iler  head  dropped  on  his  arm,  and  her  voice  died 
away.  She  was  not  crying ;  lier  despair  was  beyond 
that  relief. 

"  I  will  know  what  all  this  mystery  means !" 
Arthur  Sutherland  cried,  with  clenched  teeth.  "  1 
will  see  this  Gaston  Benoir  at  once,  and  end  this 
horrible  mystery.  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  tell  me, 
Eulalie;  if  you  have  promised  the  dead,  keep 
your  promise ;  but  he  shall !  I  will  endure  this  no 
longer !" 

He  started  up  while  he  spoke,  but  she  clung  to  him, 
her  beseeching  eyes  lifted  to  his  face. 

"  For  my  sake,  Arthur — if  you  ever  loved  me — 
wait !  You  shall  know,  you  shall  know  very  soon  ;  but 
be  patient  a  little  while  yet,  dear !  You  are  happier 
now  than  you  will  be,  my  poor  Arthur,  when  you  know 
the  truth !" 

"  Eulalie,"  said  Arthur,  "  if  you  were  an  adept  in 
the  art  of  torturing,  you  could  not  succeed  better.  No 
certainty,  let  it  be  ever  so  dreadful,  could  be  worse 
than  this  suspense !" 

"  Perluips  not,"  said  Eulalie,  sadly  ;  "  but  wait, 
Arthur,  for  my  sake  !     You  will  not  have  to  wait  very 


B  f  11 


■'  WM 


y| 


M 


i 


it 


,m 


llL 


&>    il,     >.-!    i'!  i 
ill       'I   '        ■     Hill! 

! 

lilil 


t, 


•ii 


!  '!!;. 


358 


DEEPENINO    MYSTERY, 


long.  Tiie  Pim  lias  set,  and  it  is  growing  cold ;  let  lis 
go  back  to  tlie  house." 

Clinging  to  his  arm,  she  went  slowly  back  to  the 
house  with  him.  For  the  last  time !  But  she  knew  it 
not;  only  conscious  oi  being  weary  and  C(-ld,  rnd 
ehivoring  "r.  tln'  ^;'a!^;,^  u'r.  They  widkod  to  the  house 
as  they  neve^  v  eru  1:.>  walk  together  again  in  this 
world — silent  and  sad,  bu'.  vll  unconscious  that  the  dark 
clouds  gathering  in  their  sky  were  Lu  the  blackest,  and 
the  storm  so  awfully  near  at  hand. 

Mr.  Sutherland  spent  a  wakeful  night,  and  de- 
scended ^vhen  the  breakfast-bell  rang,  ^^Iq,  jaded,  and 
unrefreshed.  Mrs.  Sutherland  never  got  down  before 
lunclieon-time  of  late,  so  Lucy  and  he  breakfasted 
alone.  His  letters  lay  beside  his  plate  as  usual,  quite  a 
little  heap  of  them,  and  he  opened  and  read,  while  he 
sipped  his  coffee  and  ate  his  toast.  There  was  one 
from  his  mother,  which  he  read  aloud  to  Lucy — she 
and  Augusta  were  still  at  Cape  May,  and  passing  the 
warm  wea  "ler  very  pleasantly.  Plulip  Sutherland 
was  still  their  cavalier,  and  was  as  lazy  and  good 
for  nothing,  and  as  vehemently  scolded  by  Augusta  as 
ever. 

The  last  letter  of  the  heap  rather  surprised  Mr. 
Sutherland.  It  was  in  an  unknown  iiand,  post-marked 
St.  Mary's,  and  bore  date  the  preceding  day. 

"  What  have  we  here  ?"  he  said,  with  a  puzzled  face, 


DEEPENING    MYSTEIiT. 


dS9 


*'I  have  no  correspondents  in  St.  Mary's  ^vlio  write 
like  this.     All  !'^ 

He  f.^oppcd  suddenly  arivl  tore  it  open.  Ho  glanced 
at  tiiC  top.  It  began  ft-rmaVIy,  "  Sir."  He  glanced  at 
the  sign,  trj  j — "  A  Friend."  The  letter  was  anony- 
mous, and  he  had  expected  to  see  the  name  of  Gaston 
Benoir. 

Yery  much  surprised,  Mr.  Sutherland  beg-'ui  tiiS 
letter  at  once,  his  face  growing  deadly  pale  a^  he 
read : 

'■'  The  wife  of  Arthur  Sutherland — the  dc-cet  iar.tof 
a  long  line  of  proud  and  honorable  men — shiii'd  be,  like 
Caesar's,  beyond  reproach.  If  Mr.  Sutherland  chooses 
to  see  an  interesting  sight,  let  him  be  in  hiding  to-niglit 
at  nino  o'clock,  near  the  old  summer-liouse  in  tlie 
grounds.  He  will  see,  if  he  chooses  to  use  his  eyes,  his 
wife  stealing  in  secrecy  and  darkness,  like  a  guilty 
thing,  to  meet  the  handsomest  man  in  St.  j\Iai*y's — ■ 
Gaston  Benoir.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  liis  charm- 
ing Creole  wife  has  stolen  to  meet  this  dark  Adonis, 
though  Mr.  Sutherland  may  not  know  it.  Mr.  Benoir 
counts  his  dollars  by  the  thousand  since  his  lirst  mect- 
inor  with  Mrs.  Sutherland  and  that  Mr.  Sutherland 
will  investigate  the  matter  is  the  sincere  advice  of 

"  A  FlilEND." 

Arthur  Sutherland's  face  was  as  white  as  that  of  a 


j![l 


f 


8G0 


DEEPENINQ     MTSTERY. 


'I 


dead  man,  as  ho  fiiiislied  the  anonymous  epistle.  A.n 
anonymous  letter  is  the  act  of  a  coward  and  a  villain, 
and  no  one  knew  it  better  than  he ;  but  for  all  they  are 
despised,  they  rarely  fail  to  have  tlieir  effect.  Was  hivS 
wife  and  Gaston  Benoir  the  theme  of  village-gossip 
already?  Was  he,  when  he  rode  through  St.  Mary's, 
pointed  out  and  pitied  as  the  betrayed  husband,  the 
confiding  fool  v/ho  was  blind  where  every  one  else 
saw  ?  Could  Eulalie  bo  capable  of  deceit  ?  For  ono 
brief  instant  his  faith  in  her  was  staggered — for  one 
only  ;  then  all  his  love  and  trust  in  the  bright,  beautiful 
creature  he  had  w^on  from  her  tropic  home  to  bless  his 
life  came  doubly  back,  lie  crushed  the  letter  in  his 
hand,  and  rose  from  the  table,  the  pallor  of  his  face 
turning  to  indignant  red. 

"  I  will  show  the  villainous  letter  to  Eulalie,"  he 
thought.  "  I  will  see  the  indignant  truth  flashing  out 
of  her  glorious  eyes." 

Kever  looking  at  or  thinking  of  his  cousin,  who  sat 
regarding  him  in  calm  astonishment,  he  hurried  to  his 
wife's  apai'tment,  with  the  crushed  letter  in  his  hand. 
But  Eulalie  was  asleep,  sweetly  and  peacefully  as  a 
little  child,  her  head  pillowed  on  her  arm,  her  beautiful 
hair  all  tossed  over  the  white  pillows.  She  looked  so 
good  and  innocent,  so  much  of  a  child  in  her  slumber, 
and  yet  with  something  of  the  sadness  of  her  waking 
life  haunting  her  sleep,  too.     His  heart  smote  him  for 


DEEPENING    MVSTEIiY. 


861 


i: 


even  that  iiioincutary  suspicion,  and  he  stooped  cud 
softly  Ivissed  the  pule  face. 

"My  innocent  darling!  my  poor  distressed  little 
child-wife !  I  will  disbelieve  my  eyes  and  ears  and  all 
my  senses,  but  I  will  never  believe  you  guilty. 
Whatever  this  horrible  secret  between  you  and  this 
man,  the  damning  insinuation  this  foul  letter  conveys 
is  false.  If  I  had  the  writer  here,  I  would  throttle 
him  !" 

Mr.    Sutherland   did  not  return  to  his  unlinished 
breakfast.       lie    wandered     aimlessly    out    into    the 
grounds,  and,  almost  without  knowing  it,  toward  the 
old  summer-house.     lie  had  never  been  there  since  the 
night  in  which  he  had  found  Philip  Sutherland  battling 
with  his  trouble  on  the  cold  ground  ;  and  there  was 
something  ghastly  to   him   in   the   place — as  if   poor 
Philip  were  dead,  and  his  spirit  haunted  it  still.     The 
sylvan  silence  of  the  spot  was  only  broken  by  the  sing- 
ing of   the   birds,  the    waving   of  the  trees,  and  the 
musical  murmur  of  wind  and  sea ;  and  it  looked  by 
day — all  wreathed  in  green  and  scented  with  roses — a 
fit  spot,  indeed,  for  a  lovers'  rendezvous.     No  shadow 
of  the  awful  deed  so  soon  to  be  done  there  hovered 
darkly  anywhere,  to  mar  its  peaceful  beauty. 

The  floor  of   the   summer-house  bore  evidence  of 
man's  occupation  ;    for  stumps  of  half-smoked  cigars 
littered  it  in  all  directions,  and  a  soiled  novel,  of  the 
16 


''il 


■    t 


il 


t!     'Il 


i-!*: 


.^i, 


h  <. 


!i 


f    l!|'^in:l 


862 


DEEPENING    MYSTERT. 


yellow  cover  spccius,  and  half  a  dozen  sporting-papers, 
lay  around.  J>ut  there  was  nothinj^  in  this.  Mr. 
]^)('noir,  of  course,  had  been  there ;  he  knew  that 
already;  and  Mr.  lienoir  was  always  smoking  and  read- 
ing, lie  turned  out  of  the  place,  and  loitered  up  and 
down  the  terrace,  and  through  the  leafy  arcades  and 
green  woodland  aisles  of  his  ancestral  home,  trying  to 
forget  that  cowardly  letter,  but  all  in  vain.  The  words 
seemed  branded  in  his  heart,  and  tortured  him  almost 
as  much  as  if  they  had  been  burned  into  his  flesh  with 
red-hot  iron.  His  wife — his  pure,  beautiful  Eulalie — 
the  talk  of  St.  Mary's — she,  the  benefactress  of  all 
there  who  were  poor,  or  sulTering,  or  distressed, 
whispered  of  as. — oh !  the  thought  was  maddening. 
He  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  in  such  bitter, 
bitter  shame  and  humiliation  as  only  proud  and  sensi- 
tive men  can  feel,  and  they  alone,  in  such  supremo 
moments. 

"  I  love  her,"  he  said,  with  pasr  ionate  grief,  "  as 
well  as  ever  man  loved  woman ;  but  1  would  rather 
see  her  in  her  coffin  than  like  this.  Oh,  my  wife  !  my 
wife !  that  you  should  have  fallen  so  low !" 

Once  or  twice  during  these  wretched,  aimless 
wanderings  he  had  stf^rted  up  to  return  to  the  chamber 
of  his  wife  and  show  her  the  letter;  but  he  always 
stopped  short  on  the  way. 

"  My  poor  girl !"  he  thought,  with  infinite  compas- 


m    ? 


Di:i:n!^:yryG   MYSTimr. 


8(UI 


sioii,  "she  lias  enoiii^h  to  btMr  already  without  this. 
No,  I  will  nuver  tell  her  of  tiiis  vilo  letter;  aiul  may 
Heaven  coufoimd  its  writer,  whoever  it  may  bo!" 

Later  in  the  day,  Mr.  Siitlicrland  moiinttvl  his  liorso 
and  set  off  at  mad  gallop— anywhere  from  his  own 
thoughts.  He  rode  throui^h  St.  Mary's  with  a  ddiant 
face,  and  saw  ^Ir.  Denoir,  handsome  as  Lueifer  before 
his  fall,  sitting  on  the  hotel  piazza,  smoking  and  read- 
ing the  morning  pa[)er.  He  looked  up  and  raised  his 
hat,  and  Mr.  Sutherland's  reply  was  a  scowl.  Mr. 
Bcnoir  looked  after  him  with  infinite  unconcern. 

"Go  it!"  said  Mr.  Bcnoir,  apostrophizing  the 
receding  iignre.  "  Look  as  black  as  you  like,  my  turn 
is  very  near  at  hand.  I  dare  say  I  should  have  post- 
pone>  it  longer,  for  the  fun  of  tormenting  that  little 
beauty  of  yours;  but  I  want  to  wind  up  matters,  and 
run  away  with  Sophie.  The  sooner  we  are  out  of  the 
claws  of  that  wild-cat  Rebecca,  the  better." 

Mr.  Sutherland  returned  to  dinner,  and  found  his 
wife  not  yet  out  of  her  room.  She  was  lying  on  a 
sofa,  dressed,  when  he  entered  the  apartment,  suffering 
from  one    f  her  bad  headaches. 

"  Go  down  to  dinner,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  and  don't 
keep  Lucy  waiting.  I  do  not  wish  any.  Triiine  will 
fetch  me  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Then  I  shall  stay  with  you,  my  love." 

"  No,  no  !"  said,  Eulalie  hurriedly.     "  I  had  rather 


i  ^/! 


Ml 


\\      il- 


-« 


il       'ii 


■i'f 


864 


DEEPENINO    MTSTLxiT. 


^ 


jou  went  down.  You  know  I  am  always  better  alone 
when  nij  head  aches." 

She  said  it  witlioiit  looking  at  liim,  her  pale  face 
hidden  in  tlie  cushions.  Arthur  descended  to  dinner 
with  a  very  grave  face,  and  his  appetite  effectually 
taken  away.  lie  sat  down  to  read  when  i*-,  was  over — 
that  is,  he  held  a  book  up  before  his  face,  and  never 
said  a  word.  How  lono;  he  sat  starino*  at  it  he  never 
knew — half  a  centary  or  so,  it  seemed  to  him,  wdien 
Lucy,  vvlio  had  been  out  of  the  room  for  some 
moLiejits,  entered,  with  a  face  full  of  concern. 

"  IIow  very  rash  of  Eulalie,  Arthur,"  she  said, 
"  with  her  bad  headache,  too.  She  will  get  her 
death." 

Iler  cousin  looked  up  from  his  book,  his  heart 
seeming  suddenly  to  stand  still. 

"  I  suppose  she  thinks  it  will  do  her  headache 
good,"  '."cnt  on  Lucy,  "  but  she  has  just  gone  out 
toward  the  terrace,  I  think.  It  is  very  foolish  of  her, 
and  you  had  better  go  and  fetch  her  back.'' 

Arthur  arose — his  face  very,  very  pale,  and  went 
out,  without  a  word.  The  ni^dit  was  cloud v  and  the 
moon  overcast,  but  the  starlight  was  bright,  and  he 
walked  s  raight  to  ^"he  terrace.  No  one  was  there,  and 
he  struck  into  the  woodland  path  leading  to  the 
summer-house.  All  was  dark  and  silent  as  the  grave. 
lie  took  his  station  under  the  dense  shadow  of  the 


DKHPENIXO     MYSTERY. 


365 


trees,  liis  arms  folded — to  wait.  From  his  post  ho 
could  see  the  summer-house  door,  and  no  one  could 
leave  it  without  passing  him.  llow  long  he  waited — 
what  he  endured — keeping  that  horrible  watch.  Heaven 
only  knows  ;  but  the  door  opened  at  last.  And — yes — 
there  was  no  doubting  it  now — his  wife  came  forth, 
shrouded  in  black,  and  Gaston  Benoir  stood  behind  her. 
The  man's  parting  words  were  spoken  low,  but  in  tlie 
hush  of  the  niiiht,  he  heard  him  distinctly: 

"Good-night,  my  pretty  Eulalie  ;  I  am  sorry,  very 
sorry  indeed,  to  distress  yon  like  this,  but  there  is  no 
help  for  it.  I  cannot  stand  the  pride  of  that  aristo- 
cratic husband  of  yours  any  longer,  my  dear,  so  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  lowering  it  to-morrow  by  telling 
him  3'our  romantic  little  history.  Good-night,  my  little 
beauty,  and  a  thousand  thanks  for  the  money." 

EuLdie  flitted  past  him,  her  dress  brushing  him, 
but  he  was  undiscovered.  He  saw  Gaston  Benoir  re- 
enter the  sunnner-house  and  close  the  door,  and  for  one 
moment  his  impulse  v/as  to  rush  in  and  throttle  him. 
But  he  held  himself  back,  though  his  teeth  were 
clenched,  and  cold  drops  stood  on  his  face. 

"  To-morrow  !  to-morrow  !"  he  thought.  "  To- 
morrow I  shall  know  all !" 


'   r 


:.  ■■! 


\< 


I     t; 


■:-|ri 


Ij 


i.'l 


•Iti 


1;    \i 


I  4 


i    i 


f  '•) 


I 


866 


EUL ALIENS    FLIOUT. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

eulalie's  flight. 

ITE  old-fasliioned  clock  in  the  entrance-Lall 
struck  ten,  and  eleven  ;  and  x*.  "tliur  Suther- 
land did  not  re-enter.  Lucy,  going  her 
rounds  to  close  up  for  the  night,  was  grow- 
ing uneasy.  She  knew  Eulalic  was  in  her  chamber, 
for  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  going  spirithissly 
np-stairs  ;  but  her  husband — where  was  he  ?  Slie  was 
just  thinking  of  sending  one  of  the  men-servants  out  to 
look  for  him  when  the  front  door  opened,  and  he 
entered.  Lucy  fairly  recoiled  at  her  own  diabolical 
success,  for  his  face  was  ghastly,  and  he  strode  past  her 
and  into  the  drawing-room  as  if  he  did  not  see  her — 
as  a  man  might  do,  walking  in  his  sleep.  She  dared 
not  follow  him ;  there  was  something  in  his  face  she 
had  never  seen  in  it  before,  and  that  awed  her.  There 
is  a  dignity  about  supreme  troubles  that  awes  involun- 
tarily.    Lucy  felt  it,  and  went  softly  up-stairs. 

"  It  has  come,"  she  said  to  herself.     "  My  revenge, 
60  long  and  patiently  waited  for.     My  letter  has  suc« 


EULALIE'S    FLIGHT. 


867 


ceeded  beyond  my  hopes.  He  uv^iiict  doubt,  the  evi- 
dence of  his  own  eyes.  I  wonder  what  the  end  will 
be?" 

Lucy  was  a  long  time  falling  asleep  that  night ;  and 
when  she  did  sleep,  her  dreams  were  uneasy  and  dis- 
turbed. Her  cousin's  white,  stern  face  glininiered 
ghost-like  through  them  all,  mingled  strongly  with  the 
fierce,  black  eyes  of  llebecca.  It  was  a  relief  when 
morning  came,  and  she  arose  to  see  the  sun  of  a  new 
day  streaking  with  bars  of  fiery  red  the  eastern  sky. 

But,  unref resiling  as  Lucy's  slumbers  were,  there 
was  one  down-stairs  who  paced  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  long  drawing-room  the  whole  night  through.  He 
could  not  go  to  his  room.  He  could  not  face  his  wife 
yet.  His  strong  faith  was  shaken  as,  only  a  few  hours 
before,  he  had  thought  notliing  could  shake  it.  The 
image  of  liis  wife,  stealing,  as  the  letter  had  said,  in 
secrecy  and  darkness,  like  a  guilty  thing,  to  meet  this 
unknown  man,  was  ever  before  him,  until  he  felt  as 
if  he  were  going  mad.  Nothing  could  excuse  such  an 
act ;  no  secret  could  extenuate  it.  She  had  degraded 
herself — she  had  degraded  him,  as  no  Sutlierland  had 
ever  been  degraded  before.  And  yet,  strange  incon- 
sistency !  feeling  all  this,  ho  had  never  hjved  lier  better 
than  now.  Throuii^h  the  \on£^  hours  of  that  miserable 
night  lie  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  trying  to 
calm  himself  with  the  thought  that  to-morrow  would 


r 


i       ! 


* 


i 


'•     8 


3 


868 


EUL ALIENS    FLWnT. 


reveal  all.  And  then,  wlien  tlic  secret  was  known, 
wliatever  it  was,  the  suffering  it  could  inflict  would  bo 
nothing  to  what  he  was  enduring  now.  lie  would  take 
his  poor  little  wife  far  away  from  St.  Mary's,  and 
those  who  dared  talk  of  her,  and  be  happy  and  at  peace 
agaiu,  as  in  the  early  days  of  their  union.  Ko  more 
secrets  to  keep  them  asunder,  no  miserable,  torturing 
doubts  and  fears  to  wear  away  their  lives.  Alas  !  and 
alas  !  for  human  dreams  ! 

Lucy  Sutherland  found  her  cousin  asleep  on  one  of 
the  sofas  when,  long  after  the  usual  breakfast-hour,  she 
went  there  in  search  of  him.  lie  looked  so  pale  and 
careworn  in  his  sleep  that  her  woman's  heart,  made  of 
flint  for  Eulalie,  melted  at  the  suffering  of  the  man  she 
loved. 

"  Poor  felloM^ !"  she  thought.  "  Poor  Arthur  ! 
how  happy  he  might  still  be  if  that  wretched  Creole 
had  never  come  with  her  sorcery  to  blight  his  life  !" 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Arthur  aw^oke  and  sat  up, 
with  a  bewildered  face.  A  moment  later,  and  he  re- 
membered how  he  must  have  fallen  asleep  there,  in  the 
cold,  gray  dawn  of  the  morning,  and  he  rose  up  with  a 
dull  sense  of  trouble  vaguely  at  his  heart.  Then  the 
remembrance  of  Gaston  Benoir  and  his  words  came 
\,A<M.  and  lie  knew  that  the  day  had  come  that  was  to 
unfoh'  I  he  mastery  of  his  wife's  life.  He  was  stretch- 
ing his  Jiand  oat  to  the  b  11  when  Lucy  entered. 


iC-' 


r 

i 

EULALIE 

'S    FLIGHT. 

t 

"  Awake  at  last  ?"  slic 

said,  smiling  ; 

"  how 

did  y<;)U 

happen  to  fal]  asleep  here, 

Arthur  V 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland.  "  Has 
there  heen  any  one  here  inquiring  for  nio,  this 
morning  ?" 

"  No." 

"  No  one !"  said  her  cousin,  a  little  disappointed. 
"  I  expected  a — a  person — a  gentleman  to  call.  In  fact, 
Lucy,"  said  Arthur  rising,  ''  I  expect  Mr.  Beinjir  this 
morning;  and  if  he  comes,  show  him  into  the  ii)>niry." 

Lucy  dropped  her  eyes,  with  an  inconceivably  cahn 
face,  and  bowed  assent. 

"  Shall  I  send  your  breakfast  into  the  library  ?"  siie 
asked. 

"  If  you  please.     lias  Eulalle  risen  yet  ?" 

"  I  have  not  been  in  Mrs.  Sutherhuid's  ro<  •m,  this 
morning.     Do  you  wisii  me  to  ascertain  V 

"  Oh,  no !" 

A  momcntM/  4ii^)6  to  asceftam  for  hin.^'  .  madcf 
him  hesitate  on  hiy  v^a/  t//  fhw.  library,  but  i  i^  only 
momentary.  Better  not  me(it  he/  urilil  hesh  A  know 
all,  until  the  worst  that  could  ^mm  Wii^ovi  id  w)>e» 
he  could  take  her  in  his  arms  and  iM  f<}ar  u(f 

more. 

Lucy  dispatched  coffee  and  rolls  to  the  lil>rary,  an4 
Mr.  Sutherland  sat  in  his  easy-chuir,  and  resolutely 
wrenched  his  thoughts  from  the  trouble  of  In  life  and 
16* 


'M 


H'li: 

I  ■ 


J   I'li 


ni 


I  'A 


f  r 


i 


870 


EULALIE'S    FLIGHT. 


^; 


fixed  tliein  on  commonplace  things.  lie  wrcitc  letters, 
lie  looked  over  neglc^^ed  accounts,  lie  read  the  papers 
the  morning  mail  had  brought,  listening  all  the  while 
for  a  ring  at  the  bell  and  a  step  in  the  hall  that 
should  announce  the  man  for  whom  he  waited.  But 
liour  after  hour  passed,  the  long  sunshiny  afternoon 
wore  away,  and  no  one  came.  AVith  every  hour,  he 
was  growing  more  and  more  impatient ;  and  when 
five  o'clock  came  and  still  no  visitor,  his  impatience 
reached  its  climax. 

''  I  will  wail  no  longer,"  he  said.  "  I  will  go  in 
search  of  him.  Another  such  day  would  drive  me 
mad  !" 

lie  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  his  horse.  As  he  was 
putting  on  his  hat  in  the  hall,  lie  met  Lucy,  ever 
omnipresent. 

"  I  will  be  back  before  dinner,  if  possible.  Lucy," 
he  said.     "  Has  my  wife  come  down  yet  ?" 

"  Not  yet." 

Mr.  Sntherland  passed  out. 

His  wife's  non-appearance  was  not  fo  unusual  of 
late  as  to  surprise  him.  So  he  mourned  ai.d  rode  awry. 
Lucy  looked  after  him  thoughtfully. 

"  Gaston  Bonoir  has  not  come  to  him,"  she  said  to 
herself  ;  "  so  he  is  going  to  Gaston  Benoir.  Oh,  if  I 
only  knew  what  this  secret  is!" 

Mr.   Sutherland   rode  direct  to  the  villatre   hcteL 


;#V 


EULALIE'S    FLIGHT . 


371 


Mrs.  Weldon  met  liim  as  he  entered,  and  dropped  her 
best  courtesy. 

"  Is  Mr.  Bcnoir  hero?  "  asked  Arthur,  a])ruptly. 

"Mr.  Benoir !  Oh,  dear,  no,  sir ;  and  I  was  ju.-t 
saying  to  my  Sophie  it  was  the  oddest  thing  what  has 
become  of  him.  Mr.  Benoir  ain't  been  here  since 
yesterday  evening." 

"  No  ?"  said  Arthur,  surprised.  "  Was  he  not  hei-e 
last  night  ?" 

"Never  came  liere  hist  night,  sir,  for  the  iirst  tinic 
since  he's  been  my  boarder.  That  Httle  fool,  Sophie, 
is  as  dreadfully  cut  up  about  it  as  if  everv  friend  she 
ever  had  was  dead.  She  says  she  know  ;?  >'uething  has 
happened  to  him,  or  he  would  never  stay  away.  There 
she  sits,  all  of  a  tremble,  and  as  pale  as  a  corpse,  crying 
and  moaning  and  taking  on,  until  I  could  box  her  ears 
—I  could." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland,  thoughtfully, 
"  very  strange.  I  expected  to  see  him  to-day  on  a 
little  matter  of  business;  and  as  he  failed  to  come,  I 
rode  over  here,  sure  of  finding  him.  You  have  no  idea 
where  he  has  gone  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least,  sir !  He  ain't  got  many  acquaint- 
ances in  the  village,  and  always  kept  regular  hours,  I 
must  sav." 

Arthur  turned  away  disappointed,  and  went  out. 
Coiild  it  be  that  Gaston  Benoir  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 


:'si 


% 


372 


EDLALIE'3    FLIGHT. 


lii 


Riimmer-lioiise,  as  he  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  drawring- 
room.  During  the  Lours  he  had  lingered  in  the 
grounds,  he  bad  not  seen  him  come  forth  ;  and  vet  if  it 
were  so,  he  could  not  surely  sleep  there  all  day.  He 
mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  back  to  Maplewood, 
puzzling  himself  over  this  new  perplexity,  and  wonder- 
ing if  the  man  had  come  in  his  absence.  EIo  sought 
out  Lucy  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  and  anxiously  in- 
quired. 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Sutherland.     "  N"o  one  has  called." 

Arthur  stood  looking  at  her,  blankly. 

"  And  [  think,"  continued  the  young  lady,  "■  you 
should  see  why  Mrs.  Sutherland  does  not  come  down. 
Hei  door  is  locked  on  the  inside,  and  she  will  neither 
answer  nor  admit  any  one.  Trifine  says  she  has  eaten 
nothing  to-da;." 

"  Good  ht » vens  1"  cried  Arthur,  aghast.  "  Eaten 
nothing  to-day  !  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  before 
I  went  out  V' 

"  Because  I  did  not  know.  Trifine  came  to  me  full 
of  alarm,  an  hour  ago,  to  say  she  had  tried  half  a  dozen 
times  to  gain  admittance,  without  success.  I  then  went 
to  Eulalie's  room  myself,  and  rapped  and  called  re- 
peatedly, but  all  in  vain.  There  was  no  answer,  and 
the  door  was  not  opened." 

Arthur  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  hurried  up  to 
his  wife's  room,  and  knocked.     There  was  no  reply. 


i  tl 


EULALIE'S    FLIQUT. 


373 


He  turned  the  Ir.ndlc — the  door  wus  locked.  Ilo 
called  her  by  name — once,  twice,  louder  and  louder- - 
and  still  all  remained  as  ailent  as  the  tomb. 

Lucy  had  come  np-stairs  after  her  cousin,  and  stood 
breathless  and  expectant  behind  him. 

As  he  turned  round,  she  involuntarily  recoiled  at  the 
ghastly  pidlor  of  his  face. 

"  Is  there  any  key  to  fit  this  door  V  he  asked, 
hoarsely  ;  "  or  must  I  break  the  lock  ?" 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  Lucy  said,  "  I  think  I  can  find 
you  a  key." 

She  ran  down-stairs,  and  was  back  almost  directly. 
Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  she  laid  hei  hand 
on  it  hard  to  still  its  wild  throbbing.  Whether  it  was 
hope  or  fear  that  set  it  throbbing  so  tumultuoiisly,  she 
hardly  dared  ask  herself.  What  would  they  find  when 
that  door  was  opened  ?  The  fairy  figure  of  the 
Creole  w^ife,  perhaps,  lying  still  and  cold  on  the  floor — 
all  her  troubles  over  forever. 

The  key  fitted  the  lock.  Ai'thur  threw  open  the 
door  and  entered  before  her. 

No  !  Her  first  feeling  was  actually  one  of  relief — 
no  stark,  dead  figure  lay  before  them ;  the  room  was 
quite  empty.  The  bed  was  undisturbed  and  unsiept 
in.  A  few  dresses,  and  articles  of  wearing-apparel  lay 
scattered  about,  and  on  the  toilet-table  lay  a  letter.  It 
was  addi'eseed   to   Arthur,   in  his  w^ife's   hand.     Sriil 


¥i 


\\    \ 


•  I 


M'  I. 


i 


874 


EULAIJE'8    FLIOIIT. 


M'oanDg  tliat  fixed  deathly  pallor,  he  tore  it  open  and 
read  : 

''My  dear,  dear  IIosband  : — T  mny  call  yoii  so 
still,  for  tlie  last  time,  since  you  will  know  ail  before 
you  see  this.  There  was  but  one  way  of  escape  left 
lor  me — flight ;  and  I  have  taken  it.  Have  no  fear  for 
mo  ;  do  not  seek  me  ;  nothing  can  hai)j)en,  however 
dreadful,  half  so  terril)le  as  the  fate  from  which  I  fly. 
Oh,  if  you  only  knew  what  I  have  suffered,  what  I  am 
suffering  as  I  write  this,  you  would  know  how  much  I 
need  your  pity  and  love,  when,  perhnps,  forever  I  lost 
both.  Oh,  xVrthur  !  Arthur  !  If  I  had  only  been  firm 
when  you  came  to  Cuba,  and  refused  to  marry  you, 
how  much  misery  and  shame  and  degradation  you 
iniglit  have  been  spared  !  But  I  loved  you  so  well — oh, 
so  well !  and  I  was  so  selfish  in  my  love,  and  hoped 
so  wildly  that  my  enemy  would  never  cross  my  path, 
that  I  yielded,  and  have  blighted  your  life  as  well  as 
my  own.  Arthur,  dearest,  it  was  not  the  lightning  that 
struck  me  down  that  night  years  ago ;  it  was  the  fii*st 
shock  of  knowing  what  you  know  now. 

"  My  love,  my  love,  farewell  I  How  blessed  I  have 
been  as  your  wife,  no  woman  can  ever  tell ;  lio\v  dear 
you  are  to  me,  how  grateful  I  am  to  you.  Heaven  alone 
knows.  Believe  all  Gaston  Benoir  tells  you ;  it  is 
true.     You  ^vill  not  blame  me  for  this  flight ;  better  I 


M' 


EULA  LIE  '5    FLfGHT. 


375 


sliould  fly  than  be  torn  from  you  as — .  Oh,  the 
thought  is  marhh^ninn^.  Farewell,  my  daHin:^!  Thiiik 
of  me  as  tenderly  as  you  can,  and  that  God  may  grant 
me  a  short  life  shall  ever  be  the  prayer  of  your  lost 

"EULALIE." 


Arthur  Sutlicrland  looked  up  from  the  letter  like  a 
man  who  had  been  stunned  by  a  l)low. 

"  Gone  !"  he  said,  looking  at  Lucy,  in  a  bewildered 
sort  of  way;  "gone!" 

"Who?  Eulalie  ?"  Lucy  asked,  pale  and  breathless. 
"  Oh,  Arthur !  where  has  she  gone  ?" 

Her  words  seemed  to  recall  him  to  himself.  Without 
replying,  he  read  the  letter  over  and  over  again — until 
all  was  clear  to  his,  at  first,  stunned  senses. 

He  turned  to  Lucy,  with  a  face  that  seemed  changed 
to  marble. 

"  Lucy,  my  wife  has  gone." 

"  Gone !"  she  vaguely  repeated. 

"  Fled — ran  away  !  For  God's  sake,  don't  ask  me 
to  stop  and  explain  now,  hut  try  to  help  me  if  you  can. 
When  did  you  see  her  last  V 

"  Last  night." 

"  Has  no  one  seen  her  since  ?" 

"  No  one." 

Mr.  Sutherland  strode  from  the  room,  and  down- 
staire,  leaving  his  cousm  hopelessly  dazed.     His  only 


•  1^ 


if 


M 


■  I' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


V4 


Z 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


IAS  128     |2.5 

|5o   ■^~     M^B 

^   1^    12.0 


M  IIIIII& 


6"     -■ 


P» 


'/ 


# 


V^ 


^r 


» 


^^^ 


*><!>* 
'> 


'/ 


/A 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


•I 


v.. 


876 


EULALIE'S    FLIOHT, 


thought  was  to  find  her — earth  or  sea,  or  all  the  secret8 
under  heaven,  could  never  part  him  from  her.  He  put 
on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  hurried  round  to  the 
stables.  Before  he  could  reach  them,  a  man  came 
rushing  out  from  among  the  trees,  beyond  the  terrace, 
with  a  very  white  and  startled  face.  It  was  one  of  the 
gardeners  ;  and  at  sight  of  liis  frightened  looks,  Arthur 
involuntarily  stopped. 

"  What  is  it,  Eichards  ?"  he  said. 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  Mr.  Sutherland !"  cried  the 
man,  his  very  lips  white  with  fear,  "  come  here  and  see 
what  has  been  done  !" 

Arthur  turned  and  followed  him — too  benumbed 
by  his  late  shock  even  to  wonder  what  this  new  mystery 
meant.  The  man  led  the  way  straight  to  tlie  summer- 
house — the  door  lay  open,  and  the  tranquil  evening 
light  filled  it. 

"  Look  there,  Mr.  Sutherland,"  said  the  gardener, 
all  pale  and  trembling,  and  not  going  in. 

The  summer-house  was  not  vacant.  A  man  sat  in  a 
chair  before  the  table,  across  which  his  head  and  arms 
had  fallen,  in  a  painfully  unnatural  and  rigid  position. 
There  was  a  pool  of  blood  on  the  floor,  in  wliich  hia 
feet  were  dabbled,  and  a  murderous-looking  poniard, 
crimson  to  the  hilt,  lay  near,  as  if  it  had  been  flung. 

Arthur  turned  to  the  man  with  a  face  full  of  hor- 
ror. 


EXTLALIE'S    FLIGHT. 


mi 


"  What  is  this,  Richards  ?"  he  said ;  "  what  does  it 
meau  ?" 

"  Murder,  Mr.  Sutherland,"  said  the  man,  in  an 
awful  voice ;  "  a  murder  has  been  done  here  !  I  daren't 
go  m  ! 

Mr.  Sutherland  entered.  He  knew  at  the  first 
glance  who  the  murdered  man  was,  but  he  resolutely 
lifted  up  the  bowed  head.  The  amber  evening  light, 
sifting  through  the  trees,  fell  full  on  the  rigid  face, 
more  beautiful  in  death  than  it  had  been  in  life.  There, 
in  the  try  sting  place  where  Eulalie  bad  met  him,  Gas- 
ton Benoir  lay  stark  and  dead  I 


ill 


.•flJ!  I 


)>■ 


m 


Ml 


fK 


■iU 


878 


AFTER    THE    INQUEST. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST. 


I  I 


STORMY  evening,  the  close  of  a  stormy 
day.  Rain,  rain,  rain,  from  early  morning 
— rnin  and  wind  now,  and  night  closing 
down  black  and  wild.  The  long,  forlorn 
blasts,  sweeping  up  from  the  sea,  shook  the  doors,  and 
rattled  the  windows  of  the  old  stone  mansion.  The 
Bca  itself  roared  with  a  dull,  incessant,  thunder-like 
Bound,  and  the  rocking  pine  w^oods,  and  the  giant 
maples  and  hemlocks  around  the  house,  echoed  back 
the  deafening  refrain.  A  wild  night  there,  on  the 
rock-bound  coast  of  Maine — a  terrible  night  for  vessels 
drifting  near  those  low  lee  shores — a  terrible  night  for 
any  human  creature  to  be  abroad. 

Arthur  Sutherland  sat  alone  in  the  library  on  this 
tempestuous  summer  night.  The  rainy  day  was  chilly 
and  raw,  and  ever-thoughtful  Lucy  had  caused  a  lire 
to  be  lit  for  his  comfort.  lie  sat  before  it  now,  staring 
into  the  red  coals,  with  a  gloom  on  his  face  darker  than 
the  gloom  of  the  rainy  night.     He  sat  there  in  the 


stormy 
norning 

closing 

forlorn 
»ors,  and 
Q.  The 
der-like 
e  giant 
3d  back 

on  the 
'  vessels 

ght  for 

on  this 
3  chilly 
1  a  tire 

staring 
ler  than 

in  the 


AFTER     Tin-:    ly  QUEST. 


379 


dull  siletico  of  the  house,  listening  ])lankly  to  the  cease- 
less rain  lashing  the  glass,  and  the  uproar  of  the  wind 
and  sea.  He  sat  there  as  he  had  sat  for  hours  and 
hours,  as  he  might  sit  all  night,  if  undisturbed. 

An  awful  luish  lay  over  the  old  house.  Ever  silent, 
the  silence  that  rci'jjned  there  now  was  soinethinjr  new 
and  ghastly ;  for  iu  one  of  the  disused  rooms  the  body 
of  the  dead  nuui  lay.  The  servants  gathered  in  groups, 
and  talked  in  wliisj)ers,  and  passed  the  door  of  that 
room  with  awe-struck  faces.  The  solemn  majesty  of 
death  pervaded  the  house,  and  voices  were  hushed, 
and  footfalls  softened,  as  if  all  the  uproar  of  t'.e 
elements  could  have  awakened  that  rigid  sleeper. 

The  inrpiest  had  been  held  that  day,  and  was  over 
but  a  few  hours  previously.  The  matter  had  been  in 
vestitnited  with  the  utmost  care,  but  no  liirht  whatever 
could  be  thrown  on  the  mysterious  tragedy.  The  last 
person  who  had  spoken  to  the  dead  man,  the  previous 
evening,  was  Sophie  Weldon ;  but  Sophie  had  fallen 
down  in  a  dead  faint  on  lirst  hearing  the  news,  and 
had  been  so  frantic  and  hysterical  ever  since,  that  her 
appearance  at  the  examination  was  quite  out  of  the 
question. 

Mrs.  "VYeldon  had  seen  him  leave  the  house  about 
dark,  and  take  the  road  leading  to  Alaplewood,  and  had 
been  very  nnicli  surprised  at  his  non-return,  but  had 
never  dreamed  of  xwy  evil  happening  to  him  ;  and  you 


■m 


■I) 
If 


Ml 


!  ,.  '  J 


I   « 
/   f 


Pi 


;  'V' 


U:. 


I.  \  I 


I'!! 


I 


j 


! 


380 


AFTER    THE    INQUEST. 


might  liave  knocked  her  down  with  a  feather  when  she 
heard  the  shocking  news. 

One  of  the  servants  of  the  house,  Rosa,  the  pretty 
waitress,  had  seen  Mr.  Benoir  between  eight  and  nine 
o'clock  on  the  night  of  the  tragedy.  Slie,  Rosa,  was 
standing  under  the  willow-trees  near  the  terrace,  talk- 
ing to — to  Mr.  S.  Doolittle,  the  baker,  when  Mr. 
Benoir  had  walked  past,  and  leaned  over  the  iron  rail- 
ing, looking  at  ihe  water.  Mr.  Benoir  was  smoking, 
and  she  knew  him  very  well  by  the  starlight.  She 
was  not  surprised  at  seeing  him  there,  for  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  coming ;  but  phe  did  wonder  a  little  at  hia 
coming  so  late,  and  had  left  Mr.  Doolittle,  the  baker, 
and  ran  into  the  house,  lest  he  should  see  her. 

Richards,  the  undcr-gardener,  was  questioned  after 
Rosa.  Richards  said  he  had  been  trimming  vines  all 
day,  and  his  work  brought  him  at  last,  late  in  tlie 
evening,  to  the  old  summer-house.  It  was  an  out-of- 
the-way  place,  where  none  of  them  ever  went,  being 
kind  of  dark  ana  lonesome-like,  shut  in  among  the 
trees;  but  he  had  gone  that  evening,  intending  to 
come  out  by  the  terrace.  In  passing,  he  had  opened 
the  d-  or  to  throw  in  some  tools,  and  had  seen  the  de- 
ceased lying  across  the  table,  us  Mr.  Sutherland  had 
found  him.  lie  recognized  him  at  once,  knowing  the 
gentleman  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  there  to  read 
and  smoke — an  odd  fancy,  by  the  way,  he,  Richards, 


/ 


AFTER    TEE    INQUEST. 


381 


vlicii  she 

e  pretty 
md  nine 
losa,  was 
ice,  talk- 
hen  Mr. 
Ton  rail- 
5inoking, 
ht.  She 
e  was  in 
;le  at  his 
e  baker, 

• 

ed  after 

nnes  all 

in   the 

ri  out-of- 

it,  being 

ong  the 

ding  to 

opened 

the  de- 

md  had 

ing  the 

to  read 

ichards, 


had  always  thought  it.  At  first,  he  had  supposed  him 
to  be  asleep ;  but  a  second  glance  revealed  the  blood, 
the  poniard,  and  the  truth.  He  had  dropped  his  tools 
and  ran  for  it,  and  had  espied  Mr.  Sutherland  at  the 
stables,  and  had  brought  him  at  once  to  the  scene  ol' 
the  tragedy. 

Mr.  Sutherland,  very,  veiy  white,  eveiybody  re- 
marked, corroborated  this.  On  his  way  to  the  stables, 
he  liad  seen  Kichards  lamning  from  the  summer-house, 
j:ale  and  frightened  ;  had  followed  him  there  at  his 
request,  and  eeen  the  murdered  man.  He  had  im- 
mediate notice  sent  to  the  proper  officials,  and  had 
himself  examined  the  wound.  He  agreed  with  the 
doctor,  that  it  was  then  many  hours  old — the  blood  had 
ceased  to  flow,  and  was  partly  congealed  on  the  floor. 
It  was  evident  he  had  been  struck  from  behind  by  a 
strong,  sure  hand ;  and  the  dagger  had  gone  straight  to 
his  heart  Death  must  have  been  almost  instantane- 
ous ;  but  he  had  been  struck  again  and  again  to  make 
sure.  He  (Mr.  Sutherland)  knew  very  little  of  the 
murdered  man.  He  was  aware  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  coming  to  Maplewood  for  some  time  past;  he 
had  asked  permission  of  the  gardener,  and  it  had  beCn 
accorded.  Mr.  Sutherland  had  heard  he  was  a  native 
of  Louisiana,  and  knew  no  more. 

^Nothing  further  could  be  elicited — nothing  to  show 
the  umrderous  hand  that  had  plunged  the  steel  intohia 


■:  i: 


M\ 


'!•: 


I..!i 


:r4 


i  '.  a 


*.7*?"  ».':»'™J»""T- 1  ^  •"  • '     ••'jij^iiJ'*;jip"'»T^ 


383 


AFTER    THE    INQUEST. 


heart.  Mrs.  Weldon  told  them  all  she  knew  of  him ; 
but  that  threw  no  light  on  the  laiirder.  Mr.  Benoir's 
bolongings  were  searched  ;  but  there  was  nothing  to 
enliijjliten  them  either.  There  were  letters  enou^jh 
about  all  manner  of  things,  but  none  to  serve  their  pur- 
pose. Mrs.  Weldon  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  the 
poor  fellow  liad  been  stabbed  for  his  money  and 
jewelry.  lie  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  late  of 
carrying  large  sums  about  him ;  also  a  valuable  watch 
and  a  diamond  ring.  None  of  these  things  had  been 
found  on  the  body — money,  rliig,  and  watch  were  all 
gone.  What  otlier  motive  but  the  motive  of  gain 
could  any  one  in  St.  Mary's  have  for  murdering  an 
inoffensive  stranger  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  this;  and  the  perplexed 
jury,  after  a  long  debate,  returned  their  verdict,  that 
Gaston  Benoir  had  been  willfully  murdered  by  some 
person  or  persons  unknown.  Tlien  the  coroner  and 
his  twelve  satellites  adjourned  to  the  dining-room  for 
refreshment,  and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Sutherland, 
and  inquired  for  the  health  Cx  Mrs.  Sutherland,  who 
was  known  to  be  delicate,  condoled  with  him  on  having 
hi*  home  so  foully  desecrated,  and  departed. 

St.  Mary's  was  in  a  state  of  unprecedented  excite- 
ment. A  murder  there  was  something  that  had  never 
occurred  within  tiie  memory  of  man,  and  they  could 
think  or  talk  of  nothing  else  now.     The  murdered  man 


wm 


AFTER    THE    ly QUEST. 


383 


of  liim ; 
Bcmoir's 
thing  to 

enough 
icir  piir- 
that  the 
ley   and 

hito  of 
le  watch 
Lad  been 
were  all 
of   gain 


[jrmg  an 


3rplexed 
let,  that 
by  some 
ner  and 
oom  for 
herland, 
nd,  who 
having 

excite- 
d  never 
)y  could 
red  man 


became  all  at  once  the  thenio  of  every  tongue,  gentle 
and  ffimple,  far  and  wide.  The  mystery  in  wliich  xhc 
whole  was  shrouded  deepened  the  ghostly  interest ;  and 
every  scrap  of  the  scanty  information  that  had  come 
out  at  the  inquest  was  retold  with  appetizing  relish. 
The  unknown  murderer  and  the  chosen  bride  of  tlio 
dead  man  shared  the  public  celebrity — that  poor 
widowed  bride-elect,  who  had  shut  herself  up  in  her 
room  when  she  came  out  of  her  hysterics,  to  do  battle 
with  her  grief  alone. 

Wonderful  to  relate,  the  news  of  Eulalie's  flight  hud 
not  yet  escaped.  It  was  a  secret  even  in  the  house  ; 
although  Hortense,  the  nurse,  and  Trifine,  the  lady's- 
maid,  were  beginning  to  wonder  audibly  wliat  had  be- 
come of  their  mistress.  The  household  had  grown  so 
used  of  late  to  Mrs.  Sutherland's  passing  whole  days  in 
the  seclusion  of  her  chamber,  that  they  ceased  to  com- 
ment on  her  absence.  She  was  so  frail  and  fragile,  so 
pale  and  wan,  that  they  took  it  for  granted  the  shock 
of  hearing  a  nmrder  had  been  done  at  her  threshold  luid 
been  too  much  for  her  feeble  nerves,  and  that  she  was 
ill  in  her  room.  Trifine  had  asked  her  master  if  Madam 
did  not  require  her,  and  had  been  told  so  curtly  "  No !" 
that  she  had  retii-ed  in  displeasure  until  further  notice. 

Mr.  Sutherland,  half  stupefied  by  the  shocks  of  his 
wife's  flight  and  the  discovery  of  the  murder,  following 
BO  close  upon  one  another,  had  been  utterly  unable  to 


884 


AFTER    THE    INQUEST. 


{ 


\ 


discover  anything  of  that  flight,  or  the  direction  in 
which  she  liad  gone.  Ilortcnso  unsuspiciously  an- 
Bwcrod  his  indirect  inquiries,  and  told  him  how  on  that 
night,  about  ten  o'clock,  her  mistress  had  entered  the 
nursery,  where  she  and  baby  slept.  Baby  and  nurse 
had  retired  for  the  night — baby  was  si  3eping,  and 
nurse  was  half  asleep.  Mrs.  Sutherland  had  bent  over 
the  crib,  and  kissed  baby  again  and  again,  and  once 
Ilortense  had  fancied  she  was  crying ;  but,  before  she 
could  make  sure.  Madam  was  gone.  That  was  all.  It 
was  evidently  her  farewell  to  her  child,  and  she  had 
stolen  out  of  the  house  at  night  and  flt^l — where  ? 

Arthur  had  had  an  interview  with  his  cousin  in  her 
room,  which  she  had  never  left  since  tiie  news  of  the 
murder.  She  had  /opped  into  a  seat,  as  if  struck 
down  by  a  blow,  when  she  first  heard  it,  and  she  had 
kept  her  room  since  in  a  sort  of  trance  of  horror.  It 
surprised  every  one ;  they  had  known  her  so  cool,  so 
phlegmatic,  so  insensible  to  all  shocks,  that  the  manner 
in  which  this  affair  prostrated  her  was  really  astound- 
ing. Could  Miss  Lucy,  the  servarits  whispered,  seeing 
this  change  in  her,  have  fallen  in  love  in  secret  with 
the  handsome  stranger  ? 

Arthur,  too  benumbed  himself  to  notice  anything, 
had  sought  his  cousin  in  her  room,  and  found  her  sit- 
ting with  a  stony  face,  and  a  stare  of  rigid  horror  in  her 
blue  eyes. 


AFTER    THE    .NQUEST. 


885 


tion  in 
sly  an- 
on iliat 
red  tho 
\  niii'se 
ig,  and 
snt  over 
id  onco 
ore  Bhe 
all.  It 
she  had 

1  in  her 
of  the 
struck 
iG  had 
'or.  It 
cool,  so 
nanner 
stound- 
seeing 
et  with 

^thing, 
ler  sit- 
in  her 


Always  pale,  there  was  something  livid  in  the  face 
ehe  turned  to  him  now. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  who  in  the  house  bo- 
sides  ourselves  know  of  my  wife's  fli — absence  ?" 

"  No  one  but  ourselves,"  Lucy  replied,  in  a  voice 
that  somehow  did  not  sound  like  hers. 

"  Then  for  Heaven's  sake  let  it  be  kept  a  secret  for 
a  day  or  two,  if  possible.  Offer  any  plea  you  choose — 
illness,  the  shock  of  this  horrible  tragedy — anything  to 
keep  the  servants  out  of  the  room  and  lull  suspicion  for 
the  present.  Who  can  tell  what  construction  slander- 
ous tongues  may  not  put  upon  her  flight,  coming  as  it 
does  at  the  same  time  as  the  murder  ?  Will  you  do  this 
for  me,  Lucy  ?" 

"  If  I  can.      But    this    concealment    cannot   last 


» 


long. 

"  I  do  not  wish  it  to.  The  inquest  over,  and  all  the 
world  may  know  of  it  if  it  chooses  As  soon  as  it  ends, 
I  shall  start  in  pursuit.  I  shall  search  to  the  bounds  of 
the  earth,  and  find  her,  or  never  return  !" 

He  did  his  best  to  control  himself  and  speak  calmly  ; 
but  the  agitation  he  felt  showed  itself  in  the  quiver- 
ing of  his  lips  and  the  trembling  of  his  voice,  in  spite 
of  every  effort. 

"Have  you  no  idea,"  said  Lucy,  looking  at  him 
steadil}^,  "  where  she  has  gone  ?" 

"  None  whatever.  My  poor  little  girl  knew  so  few 
17 


:  -« 


11 


"i 


■\:\ 


386 


AFTER    THE    JNQUE8T. 


— was  intimate  with  none,  and  Heaven  alone  knows 
what  will  become  of  her.  But  keep  her  flight  a  secret, 
Lucy.  It  would  drive  uie  mad  to  know  that  my  pure 
darling's  name  was  on  every  tongue  in  St.  Mary's,  and 
liave  it  coupled,  perhaps,  as  it  might  be,  with  the  dead 


mans. 


)j 


Lucy  Sutherland  shivered,  and  that  look  of  inde- 
scribable horror  came  into  her  blue  eyes  again. 

"  It  was  awful — it  was  awful  I"  she  said,  in  a  shud- 
dering voice.  "Stabbed  in  the  back,  and  stabbed 
straight  through  the  heart  I  Arthur!"  she  cried,  sud- 
denly, "  will  I  have  to  appear  at  the  inquest  ?  Will  I 
have  to  give  evidence  ?" 

"  Certainly  not !"  said  her  cousin,  surprised  at  her 
look  of  wild  affright.  "  You  cannot  possibly  know 
anything  of  the  murder." 

"  No,  no  1"  cried  Lucy,  distractedly,  "how  should 
I  ?  I — I  was  only  afraid  I  might  have  to  tell  that  Eula- 
he  knew  him,  and  cause  her  to  be  summoned.  Don't 
let  them  ask  for  me,  Arthur." 

"  My  dear  Lucy,"  said  Arthur,  more  and  more  sur- 
prised at  his  calm  cousin's  very  unwonted  energy,  "  you 
shall  not  appear.  There  is  no  cause  for  this  alarm,  be 
lieve  me ;  there  are  witnesses  enough  without ;  and 
whatever  you  do,  pray,  pray  never  allude  to  my  wife's 
name  in  connection  with  this  man." 


5  knows 
a  secret, 
my  pure 

ry's,  and 
the  dead 

of  indo- 

n  a  shud- 

stabbed 

ied,  snrl- 

I     Will  I 

}d  at  her 
ly   know 

w  should 
hat  Eula- 
Don't 

knore  sur- 
y,  "  you 
hirm,  be 
ut ;    and 
y  ^vife'8 


AFTKli     TlIK    INQUEST. 


387 


Lucy  dropped  her  lioad  on  the  tal)le,  shivering  still 
with  nervous  terror. 

"  Whatever  secret  existed  between  my  wife  and  this 
dead  man,"  went  on  Mr.  Sutherland,  still  strivinii^  inef- 
fectually to  steady  his  voice,  "  was  one  that  involved 
the  honor  of  others — the  dead,  perhaps — but  not  Iut 
own.  I  need  not  tell  you,  Lucy,  vbo  knew  her  so  wi-U, 
that  no  creature  in  this  lower  world  was  ever  pun^r, 
tnier,  more  loving  and  gentle,  than  my  poor  lost 
darling.    Lucy,  you  believe  this,  do  you  not  ?" 

Lucy  murmured  something,  her  cousin  could  not 
very  clearly  make  out  what,  for  she  nev  u*  lifted  her 
face  from  the  table. 

"If  you  will  stay  in  her  room,  instead  of  your  own," 
said  Mr.  Sutherland,  "  the  servants,  who  are  ever  in- 
quisitive, will  think  you  remain  there  with  her,  and 
not  conjecture,  as  they  will  be  sure  to  do  .otherwise, 
about  her  being  left  alone.  If  Trifine  or  Ilortense 
want  admittance,  you  can  open  the  door  and  dismiss 
them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy,  without  looking  up. 

"  After  the  inquest,"  continued  her  cousin,  "  I  shall 
quit  Maplewood — forever,  perhaps ;  certainly  until  I 
have  found  my  wife.  Let  them  say  what  they  please 
then — we  will  both  be  beyond  the  reach  of  their  poi- 
sonous tongues.  You,  my  good  little  steward,  will  re- 
main here  and  take  care  of  the  old  place  as  usual,  and 


t   5  ^ 


H 


888 


AFTER     TUE    INQUEST. 


u 


a 


be  a  mother  to  my  child  until  its  own  mother  returns. 
"Will  you  not,  Lucy  ?" 

I  would  do  anything  for  you,  Arthur." 
Thank  you,  Lucy.  I  don't  know  what  we  should 
ever  have  done  without  you — what  I  should  do  now. 
Keep  the  secret  of  my  wife's  fliglit,  watch  over  my 
child  when  I  am  gone,  and  you  will  have  my  everlast- 
ing gratitude  and  love." 

Lucy  did  not  speak — she  did  not  lift  her  head ;  and 
Arthur  quitted  the  room.  Half  an  hour  after,  she 
shut  herself  in  Mrs.  Sutherland's  chamber,  and  never 
left  it  until  the  inquest  was  over.  She  kept  herself 
locked  in,  seeing  no  one  but  her  cousin,  who  came  up 
now  and  then,  looking  so  haggard  and  utterly  wretched 
that  even  Lucy  was  shocked. 

So  it  happened — thanks  to  these  precautions — that 
Eulalie's  flight  was  still  undiscovered  this  stormy  even- 
ing that  closed  the  inquest.  Arthur,  half  mad  with 
impatience  to  db^  irt,  would  have  started  on  his  wild- 
s^oose-chase  within  the  hour,  heedless  of  closing;  niojht 
una  lashing  tempest ;  but  the  shocks  of  the  last  two 
'^-lys,  the  anxiety  of  previous  weeks,  were  proving  more 
than  he  had  power  to  bear.  His  head  throbbed  and 
ached  with  a  dull,  burning  pain  that  nothing  could 
soothe,  and  that  rendered  him  utterly  unable  to  depart 
that  night. 

"  I  shall    rest  to-night,"  he  thought,  pressing  hia 


f 


AFTER     THE    INQUEST. 


389 


etums. 


should 
lo  now. 
ver  my 
ivcrlast- 

id;  and 
ter,  she 
\  never 
herself 
same  up 
rretched 

IS — that 
ly  even- 
lad  with 
is  wild- 
[o;  ni2;ht 
last  two 


n<i  more 


(bed  and 
2:  could 
0  depart 


beating  temples  between  his  hands,  "  and  stait  early 
to-morrow.  My  poor  little  wife,  my  precious  darling 
— it  sets  me  wild  to  think  of  her  wandering  alone, 
friendless — and  yet,  what  can  I  do?" 

lie  sat  there  alone  in  the  Ubrary,  now  that  all  was 
over,  looking  into  the  ruddy  fire  and  seeing  horrible 
pictures  in  the  glowing  coals.  Pictures  of  a  little  figure 
wandering  heart-broken,  footsore,  and  weary,  frightened 
among  crowds,  alone  in  noisy  city  streets,  unprotected 
in  the  big  pitiless  world;  worse,  perhaps,  ill  unto 
death,  among  cold,  unfeeling  strangers,  deliriously 
calling  on  him,  from  whom  she  had  fied,  to  help  her. 
Arthur  Sutlierland  groaned  aloud  in  his  torture,  and 
covered  his  face  to  shut  out  the  dreadful  visions. 
Where,  in  all  the  great,  wide  world,  should  he  seek, 
when  to-morrow  came  ? 

lie  had  been  sitting  in  Ids  misery,  how  long  he  did 
not  know,  when  a  knock  at  tlie  door  aroused  him. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  looking  up,  and  Rosa  en- 
tered. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Sutherland,  here's  Miss  Sophie  Wel- 
don,  from  St.  Mary's,  and  she  wants  to  see  you  very 
much." 

The  sound  of  Sophie  Weldou's  name  recalled 
Arthur  to  the  knowledge  that  others  in  the  world  were 
as  miserable  as  himself.     He  was  hardly  surprised  to 


if! 


n 


sing 


bid 


soo 


AFTER    THE    INQUEST. 


i 

t 


hear  that  she  was  tliere,  although  that  morning  he  had 
been  told  she  was  unable  to  leave  her  room. 

"  Fetch  her  here  at  once,  poor  child !"  said  Mr. 
Sutherland.  And  Eosa  departed,  and,  five  minutes 
afterward,  ushered  in  Miss  Weldon,  shut  the  door,  and 
withdrew. 

"  My  poor  Sopliie — my  dear  girl !"  Mr.  Sutherland 
was  beginning,  advancing  toward  her;  and  there  he 
stopped  in  blank  dismay.  For  his  visitor  stood  before 
him  so  deathly  white,  so  awfully  corpse-like,  that  it 
might  have  startled  stronger  nerves.  She  was  drenched 
through  and  through,  splashed  with  mud  ;  her  hair,  her 
pretty  golden  curls,  all  tossed  and  disordered  about  her 
face.  She  stood  before  him  in  the  doorway,  so  unlike 
herself,  so  broken,  so  haggard,  so  lost-looking,  that  his 
heart  melted  within  him. 

"  My  poor,  poor  Sophie,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands, 
and  leading  her  up  to  the  fire.  "  Heaven  knows  how 
sorry  I  am  for  you !  My  poor  girl !  Why  did  they  let 
you  come  out  such  a  night  ?" 

"  They  don't  know  I  have  come,"  she  said,  shiver- 
ing and  crouching  in  a  strange  miserable  way  over  the 
fire ;  "  but  I  heard  he  was  to  be  buried  to-morrow,  and 
I  feel  as  if  I  must  see  him  or  die !  Oh,  Mr.  Suther- 
land, I  was  to  have  been  his  wife !" 

She  broke  out  into  such  a  dreadful  fit  of  weeping 
as  she  said  it,  that  Arthur  quite  forgot  his  own  trouble 


5  he  had 

said  Mr. 

minutes 

loor,  and 

itherland 
there  he 
d  before 
!,  that  it 
irenched 

hair,  her 
bout  her 
o  unlike 

that  his 

r  hands, 

)ws  how 

they  let 

I,  shiver- 
over  the 
'ow,  and 
Suthcr- 

wecping 
trouble 


AFTER    THE    INQUEST. 


891 


in  view  of  her  passionate  despair.  There  were  tears  in 
his  eyes  for  the  first  time ;  but  he  could  do  nothing, 
only  sit  there  holding  her  hand,  and  repeating  tenderly  : 
"  My  poor  Sophie !     My  poor,  dear  child !" 

The  outburst  of  womanly  weeping,  violent  and  hys- 
terical though  it  was,  did  the  girl  good,  for  she  lifted 
her  tear-stained  face  and  swollen  blue  eyes  presently  to 
his. 

"  I  could  not  let  you  bury  him  without  one  look  ; 
and  I  have  walked  all  the  way  from  St.  Mary's  to-night 
to  see  him !" 

"  Walked  !"  repeated  Mr.  Sutherland,  horrified. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sophie,  looking  down  at  her  soaking 
garments.  "  I  stole  out ;  they  would  not  let  me  come. 
Oh,  Mr.  Sutherland,  you  don't  know  how  I  loved 
him !" 

She  broke  down  again  in  another  paroxysm  of 
stonny  tears. 

"  My  poor,  poor  girl !"  said  Mr.  Sutherland.  "  I 
am  sorrier  for  you  than  I  can  say.  Yes,  it  is  very  hard 
to  lose  those  we  love ;  and  he  met  with  a  terrible  end 
indeed." 

"  Oil,  how  could  she  do  it !  how  could  she  do  it !" 
sobbed  Sophie,  passionately ;  ''  how  could  she  kill  him  ? 
how  could — oh,  Gaston,  Giiston  !" 

The  hysterical  sobs  grew  more  hysterical.  Mr. 
Sutherland  sat  looking  at  her,  petrified. 


li 


ij 


.  it '  I'l 
■..■  *l 

1, 1 1 

■.\\ 

''A 


14 


i'.^i 


11 


iH 


111 


302 


AFTER    TEE    INQUEST. 


I 


I 


"  How  could  she  kill  him !"  he  repeated.  "  In 
Heaven's  name,  Sophie,  of  whom  are  you  speaking  V^ 

"  That  woman !"  Sophie  gasped,  between  tho 
choking  sobs.  '*  That  tall,  dark  woman,  dressed  in 
mourning ;  and  with  those  dreadful  black  eyes.  Oh, 
how  could  she  do  it — how  could  she  kill  him  ?" 

"  Sophie,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland,  very  gravely,  "  you 
must  explain  this.  A  tall  woman  dressed  in  mourning 
kill  your  lover !     "Who  was  she  V^ 

"  I  don't  know  !  I  don't  know !  She  told  me  her 
name,  and  I  forgot  it ;  but  it  was  Rebecca — something. 
Gaston  would  never  tell  me  anything  about  her,  and 
she  killed  him  for  revenge.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do ! 
what  shall  I  do?" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Mr.  Sutherland  could  get 
any  coherent  explanation  from  the  distracted  Sophie ; 
but  at  last,  wlien  she  had  wept  until  she  could  weep  no 
more,  he  managed  to  make  out  the  story  intelligibly. 

"  But  there  is  nothing  in  all  this,  my  dear  Sophie," 
he  said,  anxiously,  "  to  prove  that  this  woman  killed 
Gaston  Benoir." 

"  She  did — she  did  !"  shrilly  cried  Sophie ;  "  she 
was  fierce  and  jealous,  and  there  was  no  one  else  to  do 
it.  Oh,  Mr.  Sutherland,  if  you  had  seen  her  eyes  that 
evening— like  two  balls  of  fire — you  would  know  as 
well  as  I  that  she  murdered  him !" 

"  And  you  don't  know  her  name  ?" 


AFTER     TUB    INQUEST. 


303 


"In 

ng?" 
3n    tho 
ssed  in 
Oh, 


Y 
I 


U 


you 


uriiing 


lie  her 

eth  iag. 

31*,  and 

I  do! 

uld  get 
ophie ; 
eep  no 
ibly. 
)phie," 
killed 

"  she 

to  do 

^s  that 

o\v  aa 


"  No ;  except  that  it  was  Rebecca." 

The  memory  of  the  tall,  dark  housemaid,  who 
looked  like  an  Indian  princess,  and  h"d  fierce  black 
eyes,  flashed  through  his  mind  at  mention  of  tho 
name. 

"Was  it  Eebecca  Stone?" 

"  No,"  said  Sophie,  "  it  was  not  Stone.  I  forget  it. 
Oh,  Mr.  Sutherland,  take  me  to  Gaston,  please  ;  won't 
you  ?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear  Sophie,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland, 
rising  ;  "  come  this  way." 

He  led  her  to  the  disused  room  where  lay  all  that 
remained  of  her  handsome  lover.  The  room  was 
weirdly  lit  up  by  a  lamp,  and  the  shadows  lurked  dark 
and  spectral  in  the  dim  corners.  The  uproar  of  wind 
and  rain  sounded  far  louder  here  than  in  the  sheltered 
and  curtained  librarj^ ;  and  the  blast  went  shrieking  by, 
like  the  cry  of  an  evil  spirit.  Something  solemn  and 
white  lay  on  a  long  table,  at  sight  of  which  Sophie  be- 
gan to  tremble  and  shrink. 

"  Courage,  Sophie,"  Arthur  whispered ;  "  don't  be 
afraid !" 

He  drew  down  the  sheet  and  held  up  the  lamp. 
In  the  still  majesty  of  death  the  dark,  beautiful  face  waa 
perfect.  It  might  have  been  carved  in  marble,  in  its 
infinite  repose  and  calm.  The  inconceivable  solemniLy 
of  that  still  face,  unman'ed  by  one  look  of  pain,  struck 
17* 


,'!| 


m 
If 

i*i  T 


% 


ii 


894 


AFTER     THE    INQUEST. 


with  the  coldness  of  death  to  the  heart  of  the  girl  who 
had  loved  him.  The  room  reeled  suddenly  under  her 
feet,  she  gave  one  gasping  cry,  and  fell  back  as  cold 
and  lifeless  as  the  dead  man,  in  the  arms  of  Mr.  Suther- 
land. 


\ 


if 

J: 


DARK    DATS, 


895 


CHAPTER  XXV, 


DABK  DAYS. 

HILE  that  day  of  rain  and  wind  darkened 
down  into  rainier  and  windier  night,  Lucy 
Sutherland  sat  at  the  chamber-window  of 
her  cousin's  wife,  looking  blankly  out  at 
the  storm.  Tliat  fixed  expression  of  intense  horror  di- 
lated her  eyes,  and  blanched  her  face  to  an  awful  bluish 
pallor  still.  Some  horrible  knowledge  that  was  not  the 
bare  fact  of  a  murder  having  been  done  so  near,  or  the 
murdered  man's  body  lying  below,  or  the  flight  of  Eu- 
lalie,  must  assuredly  have  come  to  disturb  her  immov- 
able calm  like  this.  She  sat  looking,  not  at  the  stormy 
twilight,  the  drenched  earth,  and  sky  of  ink,  but  far  oif 
over  the  top  of  the  pine  woods  into  the  black  vacancy 
beyond.  She  had  not  eaten  or  drank  that  day — the 
horror  within  her  deadened  every  sense  of  ordinary 
need. 

Trifine  and  Ilortense  had  both  been  at  the  door, 
and  been  dismissed-^their  services  were  not  required. 


i 


\  I 


806 


DARK    DAYS. 


Now,  in  the  dismal  twiliglit,  there  was  a  low  knock  at 
tlie  door. 

Lucy  arose,  and  opened  it,  thinking  to  see  the  nurse,, 
or  maid,  or  perhaps  her  cousin,  but  it  was  none  of 
them.  Rebecca,  the  housemaid,  stood  before  her  like 
a  tall,  dark  ghost.  If  it  had  been  indeed  a  ghost — the 
ghost  of  the  murdered  man  in  the  room  below — Miss 
Sutherland  could  not  have  recoiled  more  palpably,  nor 
with  a  look  of  greater  horror.  Rebecca  came  in,  shut 
the  door,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  it,  while  Lucy  re- 
treated as  far  from  her  as  the  room  would  permit,  never 
taking  her  wildly-dilated  eyes  oU  her  fac  e. 

"Have  I  frightened  you,  Miss  Sutherland?"  Re- 
becca said,  advancing ;  but  Lucy  held  out  both  hands, 
with  a  sort  of  cry,  to  keep  her  off. 

"  Don't  come  near  me — don't  I"  she  cried  ;  "  you 
murderess !" 

"  Miss  Sutherland  I" 

"  Keep  off !"  Lucy  shrilly  repeated,  "  you  homble 
woman  ;  if  you  come  one  step  nearer,  I  will  alarm  the 
house !" 

Rebecca  stood  still,  her  dark  complexion  slowly 
lading  to  a  dull,  sickly  yellow ;  her  eyes  in  the  spectral 
twilight  fixed  on  Miss  Sutherland  with  an  awfully 
wolfish  glare. 

"  You  devil,"  Lucy  cried,  trembling  from  head  to 
foot  in  fear  and  horror,  "  in  woman's  form !     I  know 


1-^ 


BABK    DAYS. 


397 


what  you  have  done !  You  murderess  !"  she  hissed  the 
words  through  her  closed  teeth.  "  I  am  afraid  to  Hve 
under  the  same  roof  with  you.  If  you  do  not  leave 
this  house  to-night,  I  will  denounce  you  to-morrow 
morning  as  the  assassin  of  Gaston  Benoir  !" 

"  Prove  it !"  said  Rebecca,  with  a  sneering  smile. 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  Miss  Sutherland,  and  you 
know  it !  Have  you  forgotten  that  little  compact  we 
made  a  few  days  ago  ?  No,  I  see  you  have  not.  You 
call  me  hard  names,  and  I  don't  retaliate ;  but  don't 
you  go  too  far — mind,  I  warn  you !  I  am  not  afraid  of 
you.  You  v/ill  not  denounce  me — but  pay  me  what 
you  owe,  and  I  will  leave  this  house  to-night." 

Lucy  took  out  her  purse,  and  pushed  two  or  three 
bills  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  table.  Rebecca  took 
them — looked  to  see  that  they  were  all  right,  and  put 
them  in  her  pocket." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Sutherland,"  she  said,  moving 
toward  the  door ;  "  and  good-bye  !  I  am  not  afraid  of 
you,  mind,  and  I  shall  not  forget  the  hard  names  you 
have  called  me.  It  is  not  a  very  pleasant  night  to  be 
abroad  in,  but  I  dare  say  I  can  bear  it.  Good-bye, 
Miss  Sutherland,  I  wish  your  cousin  joy  of  his  second 
wife !" 

The  death's-head  stare  with  which  Lucy  had  been 
regarding  her  relaxed,  and  Rebecca  was  gore.  As  she 
vanished  in  the  gloom  of  the  staircase,  it  seemed   to 


803 


DARK    DAYS. 


Lucy  tliat  an  evil  spirit  liad  quitted  the  room  and  dis 
aj)pcurcd  into  its  native  element.  She  locked  the  door, 
and  resumed  her  seat  again  by  the  window,  her  fjice 
hidden  in  her  hands,  niiserahle  and  remorseful.  Ilei 
nature,  warped  by  jealousy,  was  not  yet  wholly  bad, 
since  her  conscience  stung  her  so  keenly  now.  She  felt 
as  though  she  were  a  murderess  herself  ;  and  she  would 
have  given  all  she  had  ever  so  wickedly  longed  for,  to 
restore  her  cousin's  wife  to  her  home  and  Gaston 
]3enoir  back  to  life. 

The  dreary  twilight  blackened  entirely  out,  and 
night  closed  down  in  windy  gloom.  She  kept  no  count 
of  the  wretched  hours,  and  she  never  stirred  until  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  arose,  groped  her  way 
to  it  in  the  darkness,  and  opened  it.  The  hall  without 
was  brightly  lighted,  and  Rosa  stood  there,  flurried  and 
anxious. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lucy,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Sutherland 
says  will  you  come  down  to  the  library.  Miss  Weld  on, 
she's  in  a  fainting-fit,  and  we  can't  none  of  us  fetch  her 
to." 

"  Miss  Weldon !"  exclaimed  Lucy. 

"  Yes,  Miss,  from  St.  Mary's.  She  came  up  here,  I 
heard  master  tell  cook,  to  see  her  dead  lover  before  he 
was  buried,  and  fainted  stone-cold  at  the  first  sight. 
We  can't  fetch  her  to,  and  would  you  come  aiid  try, 
Miss,  master  says  V 


DARK    DAYS. 


309 


Lucy's  reply  was  to  l)rush  past  the  girl,  and  run 
down-stairs.  Ilortonso  and  Trifinc  were  bend  ins:  over 
poor  Sophie,  who  lay  very  corpse-like  indeed  on  a 
lonnge.  Mr.  Sutherland  stood  looking  on,  with  a  dis- 
tressed face. 

"  Try  what  you  can  do  for  her,  Lucy,"  he  said ;  "  all 
our  efforts  to  restore  her  arc  unavailing." 

Cologne,  sal  volatile,  and  cold  water  were  resorted 
to,  and  presently  Sophie's  blue  eyes  opened  on  this 
mortal  life  once  more.  But  she  was  all  wild  and  ^*^- 
coherent,  and  clung  to  Miss  Sutherland  in  such  palpa- 
ble affright,  that  it  was  long  before  they  could  soothe 
her  to  calmness. 

•  "  Come  with  me,  Sophie,"  said  Lucy,  gently.  "  Come 
np-stairs  to  my  room.  You  are  too  tired  and  wet,  and 
must  rest." 

Sophie  allowed  herself  to  be  ka  away;  and  with 
the  assistance  of  Rosa,  Miss  Sutherland  got  off  her  wet 
garments,  and  saw  her  at  last  safely  in  bed.  Poor 
Sophie,  quite  exhausted,  dropped  asleep  almost  imme- 
diately, and  Rosa  was  leaving  the  room,  when  Miss 
Sutherland  detained  her. 

"  Rosa,  have  you  seen  Rebecca  this  evening  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  said  Rosa,  "  and  she's  gone." 

"  Gone !" 

"  Yes,  Miss ;  bwC  for  good  I  take  it !  All  her  things 
are  packer  up,  and  she  asked  William  to  fetch  them  to 


1  M 


400 


DARK    DATS. 


J 


tho  station  to-morrow.  Sho  told  William  she  had  got 
discharged." 

"  So  sho  has,"  said  Lucy,  quietly.     "  That  will  do." 

Rosa  departed;  and  Lucy,  lowering  tho  light  so 
as  not  to  disturb  the  sleeping  girl,  went  down-stairs 
again  to  the  library.  She  found  her  cousin  walking 
gloomily  up  and  down. 

"  I  wanted  you,  Lucy,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  depart 
to-morrow  before  you  are  up.  You  will  be  good  enough 
to  see  that  a  few  indispensable  tilings  are  packed,  as  I 
shall  take  as  little  baggage  with  me  as  possible.  I  shall 
write  to  my  mother,  and  then  retire." 

Lucy  looked  at  him  anxiously ;  ho  was  so  pale, 
and  haggard,  and  hollow-eyed,  that  sho  could  hardly 
realize  that  a  few  dayt]  had  wrought  the  change. 

"Are  you  sure  you  will  be  able  to  travel  to-morrow, 
Arthur?     I  never  saw  you  looking  so  ill." 

He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  throbbing,  and 
beating,  and  burning  hot. 

"  I  must  go !"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  help  for  it.  I 
have  een  detained  hero  far  too  long  already.  The 
Reverend  Calvin  Mastcrson  is  to  see  about  tho 
burial,  and  take  all  trouble  off  your  hands.  I  shall  go 
to-morrow  if  I  can  stand." 

Lucy  would  have  asked  where,  but  her  cousin's  faco 
warned  her  it  would  be  in  vain. 

"  Lest  you  should  feel  lonely  at  first  after  this  terri- 


DARK    DAYS. 


401 


morrow. 


blc  Gvcnt,"  Mr.  Sutherland  went  on,  still  wallung  up 
and  down,  "  I  shall  ask  my  mother  to  return  liere  for  a 
time.  I  shall  enter  into  no  explanation  as  to  the  cause  of 
my  wife's  leaving  home — I  do  not  know  the  cause  my- 
self 1  I  am  going  to  iind  her ;  and  if  she  is  on  the  earth, 
I  shall  iind  her  before  I  come  back  I" 

Lucy  arose. 

"  Have  you  any  directions  to  give  before  you  go  ?" 
elie  calmly  inquired. 

"  None  ;  I  leave  all  to  you — my  good,  prudent,  littlo 
cousin.  God  bless  you,  Lucy  I  Pray  for  my  success 
when  I  am  gone." 

He  wrung  her  hand,  and  let  her  go ;  and  Lucy 
Sutherland  went  slowly  up-stairs,  feeling  as  though 
that  blessing  were  a  burning  curse. 

But  Mr.  Sutherland  did  not  depart  on  his  long 
journey  to-morrow  ;  for  \\'hen  to-morrow  came,  he  was 
raving  and  tossing  deliriously  in  a  burning  fever. 

He  had  sat  up  and  endeavored  to  write  to  his  mother, 
the  words  swimming  in  a  hot  mist  before  his  eyes ;  and 
he  had  to  go  to  bed  with  that  burning  beating  in  his 
temples  worse. 

And  so,  next  morning,  when  the  time  for  starting 
came,  he  was  raving  incoherently  of  his  lost  wife  and 
the  murdered  man,  and  the  journey  was  indefinitely 
postponed. 

Lucy  Sutherland,  as  thin  as  a  shadow  herself,  took 


: 


403 


DARK    DATS. 


her  place  by  tlie  bcdsido,  and  became  the  tenderest  and 
most  dos'oted  of  nurses.  She  hardly  ever  left  him  night 
or  day,  and  no  man  was  ever  nursed  by  mother  or 
wife  with  more  loving  care  than  Arthur  by  this  quiet 
cousin. 

Early  in  the  first  day  of  Mr.  Sutherland's  illness,  the 
Kovercnd  Calvin  Masterson,  accompanied  by  the  under- 
talcer,  and  two  or  three  of  the  village  officials,  came  to 
Maple  wood  ;  and  the  mortal  remains  of  Gaston  Benoir 
wore  hidden  beneath  the  coffin-lid.  A  crowd  of  idlers 
struggled  after  the  hearse  as  it  lumbered  slowly  along 
to  St.  Mary'rt  Cemetery. 

There  was  but  one  mourner,  poor  Sophie  Weldon, 
who  was  driven  in  one  of  the  Maplewood  carriages,  to  see 
her  lover  laid  in  the  ground.  Only  one  mourner,  but 
Sophie's  tears  never  ceased  to  flow  all  the  time  of  that 
dreary  drive.  The  weather  was  as  gloomy  as  the 
lonely  funeral  cortege ;  a  dull,  blankly-hopeless  day  of 
fog,  and  mist,  and  drizzle,  and  cold  around. 

"  Ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust,"  read  the  Reverend 
Calvin  Masterson,  shivering  in  the  raw  wind,  and  then 
the  sods  went  rattling  down  on  the  coffin-lid ;  and  in 
ten  minutes  it  was  all  over,  and  every  body  was  going 
home  but  Sophie,  who  knelt  down  by  the  new-made 
grave,  and  laid  her  poor,  toar-stained  face  on  the  wet 
grass.  It  was  all  over — and  the  man  who  had  been  the 
terror  and  blight  of  Gustavus  Rohan's  life,  and  that  of 


DABK    DATS. 


403 


his  granddaughter,  was  harmless  enough  now  in  his 
last,  long  home. 

But  the  gloom  of  the  murder  hung  over  the  old 
stone  mansion  still — its  awful  shadow  brooded  darkly 
yet  around  the  place.  The  spirit  of  the  dead  man 
seemed  to  haunt  the  ghostly  rooms,  so  grand,  so  lonely, 
80  deserted.  Not  a  servant  in  the  house  would  have 
entered  the  room  where  he  had  lain,  for  a  fortune,  after 
nightfall ;  and  even  in  broad  daylight,  they  hurried  by 
with  paling  cheeks  and  frightened  glances.  Maplewood 
had  gained  all  it  wanted  to  make  it  perfect — it  had  be- 
come a  haunted  house. 

The  story  of  the  murder  was  not  the  only  astound- 
ing theme  St.  Mary's  had  to  gossip  about ;  for  the 
flight  of  Eulalie  was  known  to  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  the  place.  Lucy  was  coldly  reticent ;  her  own 
opinion  was,  she  told  Mr.  Masterson  and  Colonel 
Madison,  that  Mrs.  Sutherland's  mind  was  disordered, 
and  had  been  for  some  time  past.  But  St.  Mary's  did 
not  believe  that  any  more  than  Mr.  Masterson  or 
Colonel  Madison  did,  and  began  couj^ling  in  whispers 
her  name  with  the  name  of  the  dead  man.  Somehow, 
it  came  out  that  Mr.  Benoir's  diamond  ring  had  been 
given  him  by  Mr.  Sutherland's  wife.  It  came  out,  too, 
that  there  had  been  stolen  meetings  by  niglit  in  the 
grounds ;  that  they  had  been  in  the  old  sunnner-house 
together  on  the  evening  of  the  tragedy  ;  and  that  Mrs. 


404 


DARK    DATS. 


Sutherland  had  run  away  tliat  very  night.  How  it  was 
all  discovered,  no  one  seemed  to  know  ;  but  it  was  on 
every  tongue,  and  dark  suspicions  were  beginning  to  be 
whispered  ominously  about.  Lucy,  sitting  in  her 
cousin's  darkened  room,  heard  all ;  but  her  pale,  quiet 
face  told  no  tales.  Whether  she  exulted  in  her  hidden 
heart,  whether  she  was  repentant  or  remorseful,  none 
knew  but  Heaven  and  herself.  She  kept  her  ceaseless 
watch  by  her  cousin's  sick  bed,  by  night  and  by  day, 
never  wearying,  never  flagging,  listening  with  that  pale, 
Btill  face  to  his  wild  ravings,  and  bathing  his  flushed 
face  and  burning  hands.  His  talk  was  all  rambling 
and  incoherent — now  of  Eulalie — now  of  Isabel — now 
of  his  schoolboy-days — and  now  of  Lucy  herself,  his 
good,  patient,  kind,  little  cousin.  It  was  weary,  weary 
work  sitting  through  the  long  days  and  longer  nights 
listening  to  his  idle  babbling,  but  Lucy  loved  him,  and 
never  deserted  her  post. 

A  week  later,  and  ]!,Irs.  Sutherland,  Augusta,  and 
Philip  arrived,  in  a  state  of  hopeless  bewilderment  and 
consternation.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  A  murder  com- 
mitted— Eulalie  run  away — Arihur  down  with  brain- 
fever  !  Mrs.  Sutherland  poured  out  a  torrent  of  ques- 
tions before  she  had  been  five  minutes  in  her  son's  sick- 
room. 

Lucy's  armor  of  reticence  was  not  to  be  broken 
down.     Grudgingly  enough,  coldly  enough,  she  told 


I 


'.*  i 


DARK    DAYS. 


405 


what  slio  could  not  help  telling,  and  no  more.  Yes,  it 
was  all.  quite  tmc,  the  murder,  the  flight,  and  the  ill- 
ness ;  but  hew  thej  were  connected  with  each  other, 
she  could  not  telL  She  certainly  believed  Eululie 
knew  Gaston  Benoir  intimaxly — the  man  wore  her 
ring  openly,  and  she  had  been  seen  to  meet  him  by 
night,  and  by  stealth,  in  the  grounds.  She  had  been 
with  him  the  night  of  the  murder  and  of  her  flight ; 
and,  taking  all  things  into  consideration,  it  was  really 
very  strange,  but  she  positively  knew  nothing.  Mrs. 
Arthur  Sutherland  kept  her  own  secrets,  and  kept  them 
well — ^lier  husband  knew  no  more  than  they  did. 
Eulalie  had  fainted  the  first  time  she  saw  Gaston 
Benoir — the  mention  of  his  name  in  the  most  casual 
way  had  always  been  sufficient  to  throw  her  into  a  state 
of  the  gi'catest  agitation.  Beyond  these  facts,  she  knew 
nothing. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  listened,  pale,  indignant,  haughty. 
Augusta,  in  open-eyed  wonder.  Philip  Sutherland, 
moodily  silent. 

"  The  man,  you  say,  was  young  and  handsome  ?" 
Mrs.  Sutherland  asked,  wdtli  a  frown. 

"  Eminently  handsome,  and  about  thirty,  I  should 
judge  I" 

"  There  is  no  tnisting  thef e  foreigners !"  said 
Augusta,  vv'ith  a  spiteful  remembrance  of  the  woman 
who  had  once  been  her  rival  j  "  I  dare  say  this  hand- 


(Ml 

4 


!•" 


406 


DARK    DATS. 


some  Louisianian  had  been  a  lover  of  hers  before  any  of 

us  saw  lier !" 

Arthur's  mother  took  the  post  of  head  nurse  at 
once,  and  Lucy  was  deposed.  After  that  first  day,  the 
name  of  the  absent  wife  was  by  tacit  consent  avoided 
by  all.  If  she  had  been  dead  and  lying  in  the  church- 
yard, her  memory  could  not  have  been  more  a  thing  of 
the  past  than  it  was.  September  glowed  itself  out  in 
the  sunny  summer  sky,  and  October,  bright  and  brown, 
was  tlicre  before  Arthur  Sutherland  came  slowly  out 
of  the  weary,  delirious  dreamland  in  which  he  had  been 
straying  so  long.  Life  and  death  had  had  a  hard 
struggle  for  victory,  but  he  was  passing  from  the  dark 
valley  in  the  end.  Yery  slowly,  wan  and  wasted  ;  too 
languid  even  to  speak  at  first,  but  surely  getting 
better.  When  he  could  speak,  his  first  question 
was  of  his  wife.  It  was  Lucy  he  asked,  sitting  at  his 
pillow. 

''  No,"  Miss  Sutherland  said ;  "  we  have  heard 
nothing  whatever,  as  yet.  Philip  left  here  a  month 
ago  to  search  for  her,  but  all  his  searching  has  been 
fniitlcss  !" 

To  his  mother  or  sister,  Arthur  never  spoke  of  his 
lost  wife.  lie  felt  instinctively  that  they  believed  her 
guilty,  and  he  was  too  weak,  and  tired,  and  spiritless  to 
enter  into  explanation  or  defense.  But  his  mind 
rarely  wandered  from  her.     lie  lay  in  his  darkened 


DARK    DATS. 


407 


chamber,  and  tliought  of  her  through  the  long  daya 
and  longer  nights  ;  thought  of  her,  poor  Httle  beauty  ! 
as  he  miglit  have  thought  of  her  dead — sadly,  lovingly, 
forgivingly. 

His  convalescence  was  wearisomely  slow.  October 
was  at  its  close  before  he  could  cross  the  threshold,  and 
breathe  the  fragrant  sea  air  once  more.  Such  a  pale 
shadow  of  the  handsome  Arthur  Sutherland  of  other 
days  !  such  a  wreck  of  his  bright  young  manhood !  such 
a  weak,  broken,  saddened  man  !  He  wandered  up  and 
down  the  maple-groves,  he  loitered  on  the  grassy  ter- 
race, looking  with  wistful,  dreary  eyes  at  the  silvery 
horizon  far  away,  and  dreaming  of  the  days  when  he 
had  lingei'ed  here  with  his  dark-eyed  darling  at  his  side. 
How  long  ago  it  seemed — years  and  years  instead  of 
months ;  and  she  had  vanished  out  of  his  life,  and  left 
him  a  desolate  and  careworn  man. 

Philip  Sutherland,  faithful  to  the  memory  of  the 
woman  he  had  once  loved,  was  still  on  the  search,  and 
still  in  vain.  He  wrote  regularly  to  Maplewood,  but 
his  letters  brought  no  news  of  the  lost  wife.  If  the 
earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  her,  she  could  not 
have  more  completely  vanished  from  human  ken. 

One  dreary  November  evening,  Arthur  sat  alone  in 
the  library,  watching  the  short  day  fade  out  of  the 
leaden  sky.  The  view  from  the  window  was  desolation 
itself,  the  trees  holding  out  gaunt,  stripped  arms,  that 


m 


'4 


1 1 


408 


DARK    DATS. 


rattled  like  dry  bones  in  the  shrill  blast.  The  dead 
leaves  whirled  away  in  crazy  circles,  and  the  gray  sea 
swept  moaning  up  on  the  gray  sands  under  the  low- 
lying  gray  sky.  It  was  all  desolate — as  desolate  as  his 
own  heart,  and  he  turned  away  with  a  long,  weary 
sigh,  as  the  door  opened  and  his  stately  mother 
came  in. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  Arthur,"  she  said,  holding  one 
out. 

"  From  Philip  ?"  he  eagerly  asked. 

"  No ;  from  a  woman,  I  should  judge  from  the 
writing,  and  post-marked  New  York." 

The  letter  was  in  a  hand  unfamiliar  to  Mr.  Suther- 
land. His  mother  stood  before  the  fire,  looking 
thoughtfully  into  the  red  coals  while  he  read.  Pres- 
ently, a  cry,  sharp  and  sudden,  made  her  turn  round ; 
her  son,  with  a  wildly-startled  face,  was  staring  at  it 
with  dilated  eyes. 

"  What  is  it,  Arthur  ?"  she  asked,  in  alarm.  "  Any 
news  of — " 

She  stopped  with  the  name  on  her  lips,  as  Arthur 
arose  impetuously. 

"  Where  is  Lucy  ?"  he  demanded,  crumpling  the 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"  In  the  dining-room.     Arthur — " 

But  Artliur  was  gone.  Sti'iding  straight  to  the 
dining-room,  he  found  Lucy,  sewing  by  the  last  rays 


in 


DARK    DAYS. 


409 


3  dead 
ay  sea 
c  low- 
3  as  his 
weary 
mother 

ng  one 


of  the  daylight.  She  lifted  her  calm  eyes  as  he  ex- 
citedly held  out  the  letter. 

"  Kead  it,  Lucy  !"  he  said.  "  I  know  it  is  false  in 
what  it  says  of  you  ;  but  read  it,  and  tell  me  if  we  have 
indeed  found  the  murderer  of  Gaston  Benoir  !" 

Lucy's  fixedly-pale  face  could  grow  no  more  color- 
less than  it  habitually  was  ;  but  the  hand  she  held  out 
for  the  letter  trembled  like  a  leaf.  Arthur  stood  look- 
ing at  her  with  eager  eyes  while  she  read. 


■m 


om  the 

Suther- 
1  looking 
Pres- 
round ; 
ing  at  it 

"Any 

Arthur 

mg  the 

to  the 
ist  rays 


"  Arthur  Sutherland,  Esq. — Sir  : — Having  placed 
a  safe  distance  between  you  and  myself,  and  being 
about  to  start  for  a  foreign  land,  I  may  eafely  make  m}' 
last 'dying  speech  and  confession.  You  would  like  to 
know  who  murdered  Gaston  Benoir,  wouldn't  you? 
Well,  you  shall !  I  did  it — yes,  I — and  I  exult  in  the 
act !  I  stabbed  him  that  night  in  the  summer-house ; 
and  I  robbed  him  of  your  wife's  ring,  his  watch,  and 
five  thousand  dollars,  which  little  fortune  your  pretty 
wife  had  just  given  him.  I  did  it,  Mr.  Sutherland,  and 
I  would  do  it  again.  He  deceived  me  from  first  to 
last !  I  swore  revenge,  and  I  kept  my  word  !  Do  you 
think  I  was  going  to  be  cast  off  and  flung  aside  with 
scorn  for  that  little  insipid  nonentity,  Sophie  "Weldon  ? 
Gaston  Benoir  should  have  known  me  better ;  but  he 
was  a  villain  and  a  liar,  and  he  has  paid  the  penalty  ! 
Do  they  suspect  your  wife — your  pretty  little  frightened 
18 


4 


€ 


410 


DARK    DATS, 


'li 


li 


black-eyed  wife?  I  know  one  who  does  not — that 
sleek  white  cat  your  cousin,  Miss  Lucy  Sutherland. 
She  could  have  told  you  all  from  the  first,  who  avenged 
herself  on  Gaston  Benoir ;  but  she  didn't,  did  she  ?  Do 
you  suppose  it  was  for  love  of  me,  or  for  hatred  of  your 
wife,  that  she  kept  my  secret  ?  You  don't  know  that 
she  did  hate  her,  do  you  ?  Any  more  than  you  know 
she  was  ever  madly  in  love  with  yourself  ?  No,  and  I 
dare  say  you  won't  believe  it  now  ;  but  it  is  true  never- 
theless. Make  her  Mrs.  Arthur  Sutherland  Number 
Two,  and  she  will  have  the  desire  of  her  life  at  last. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Sutherland,  as  a  friend,  I  advise  you 
not  to  waste  time  and  money  searching  for  me.  You 
won't  find  me  !  When  you  discover  last  year's  snow — 
last  summer's  partridges — then  you  may  look  for 

"  Rebecca  Isaacs,  alias  Stone/' 


i! 


FOUND    AND    LOST, 


411 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 


FOUND  AND  LOST. 


TJCY  looked  up  from  the  letter,  her  blue  eyes 
flashing,  her  thin  lij^s  trembling.  Once, 
twice,  she  essayed  to  speak,  but  rage  and 
bitter  mortification  choked  her  voice.  To 
the  unspeakal)le  consternation  of  her  cousin,  she 
crumpled  up  the  letter  and  flung  it  across  the  room, 
an'^  covering  her  face  with  both  hands,  bui*st  out  into  a 
passionate  fit  of  crj'ing.  Arthur  stood  confounded. 
He  had  expected  to  see  her  horrified,  indignant,  angry 
perhaps,  but  not  like  this.  He  had  never  seen  Lucy — 
calm,  placid  Lucy — weep  before  ;  and  now  her  sobs 
seemed  to  rend  and  tear  her  frail  body  with  their 
strength.  It  was  such  another  outbui-st  as  had  hap- 
pened once,  years  before,  in  her  mother's  house — a 
wild  tempest  of  tears.  Perhaps  she  had  never  wept 
since  then ;  but  the  humiliation  was  so  bitter,  the  mor- 
tification so  keen,  that  she  could  not  have  stayed  those 
tempestuous  sobs  to  have  saved  her  life. 

"  Lucy,  Lucy  !"  Arthur  cried,  "  for  Heaven's  sake, 


1 


f 


413 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


don't !     You  distress  me  more  than  I  have  words  to 
6iiy !     Lucy,  my  dear  cousin — " 

Slic  sprang  to  her  feet  like  a  tigress — dashing 
fiercely  away  the  tears  from  her  flashing  eyes,  showing 
him  her  real  nature  for  the  first  time. 

"  How  dare  you  speak  to  me !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  How  dare  you,  Arthur  Sutherland !  IIow  dare  you 
insult  me  by  showing  me  that  horrible,  lying  letter  1 
How  dare  you  do  it !" 

"  My  dear  Lucy — " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me !  Don't  call  me  your  dear 
Lucy !  Arthur  Sutlierland,  I  hate  yon  !  I  hate  you  I 
and  I  will  never  sleep  another  night  under  your 
roof!" 

He  was  standing  between  her  and  the  door,  and 
she  thrust  him  aside  with  a  frantic  violence  that  made 
him  reel,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  Mi's.  Suther- 
land, in  a  state  of  pale  and  haughty  amaze,  was  in  the 
door-w\ay,  but  Lucy  fiung  past  her  quite  frantically. 

"My  dear  Arthur,"  said  his  mother,  entering, 
"  what  on  earth  does  this  all  mean  ?" 

Arthur  looked  at  her,  still  with  that  utterly  con- 
founded face. 

"  Is  that  Lucy  ?"  he  cried,  staring  hopelessly  after 
her.     "  Has  she  gone  mad  ?" 

"  It  looks  exceedingly  like  it  I"  said  Mrs.  Suther- 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


418 


land,  frowning.  "  What  liavc  you  been  sifying  to  lier, 
Arthur  ?" 

Artliur  put  the  old  housemaid's  letter  in  his 
mother's  hand.  Mrs.  Sutherland  read  it  with  wide- 
open  eyes  of  wonder. 

"  Good  Heavens,  Arthur  I  what  a  horrible  letter  1 
Who  is  Rebecca  Isaacs  ?" 

Arthur  related  all  that  he  knew  of  the  stately 
housemaid  with  the  fiery  black  eyes. 

"  I  thonght  from  the  first  she  was  no  ordinary 
servant,"  he  said,  "  l)ut  this  confession  makes  her  out  a 
devil.  As  to  what  it  says  of  poor  Lucy,  of  course  that 
is  all  spite.  She  Wius  dismissed,  I  believe,  and  this  is 
her  revenge." 

"  Spite !"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland,  all  her  old  dislike 
of  her  niecc-in-law  strong  within  her.  "  One  part  of 
the  letter  is  as  tvue  as  the  other.  It  was  the  conscious- 
ness of  guilt  that  made  that  little  hypocrite  fly  out  at 
you  in  this  revolting  manner.  The  vile,  disgraceful 
creature — "  But  her  son  interrupted  her  with  a  look 
of  pain. 

"  Ilush,  mother.  Poor  Lucy,  don't  think  so  ill  of 
her.     What  had  I  better  do  with  this  letter  ?" 

"  Show  it  to  the  coroner,  of  course !  and  let  detec- 
tives be  set  on  the  track  of  the  murderess  at  once." 

"  But  the  letter  involves  Lucy — "  Mr.  Sutherland 
hesitated. 


4U 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


"What  of  that!"  said  his  mother,  sharply.  "la 
Liioy's  ^uod  iiaiiio  of  more  iini)ortanco  than  that  of 
yourwlfo?  Don't  you  know  she  is  suspected  of  the 
murder?  Don't  be  ahsurd  I  Drive  to  St.  Mary's  im- 
mediately, and  do  as  I  tell  you  I" 

Mr.  Sutherland  obeyed  ;  going  up  to  Lucy's  room 
first,  however,  and  doing  his  utmost  to  obtain  an 
entrance.  Lucy  was  obdurate ;  her  door  was  locked, 
and  she  would  neither  open  it  nor  answer  him ;  so 
there  being  no  help  for  it,  he  drove  off  to  St.  Mary's  to 
follow  his  motlier's  counsel. 

The  matter  involved  some  hours  ;  it  was  very  lato 
when  he  returned,  but  his  mother  was  waiting  up  to 
tell  him  Lucy  had  gone. 

"  Gone !"  Arthur  repeated,  aghast. 

"  Yes,  bag  and  baggage,  and  Maplewood  is  well  rid 

« 

of  her !  There !  don't  talk  to  me  about  lier.  I  have 
no  patience  to  think  of  her.  Go  to  bed,  you  look  done 
to  death." 

Arthur's  pained  face  showed  what  ho  felt,  but  ho 
said  little.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  start  next 
day  on  his  long-deferred  journey  in  search  of  his  wife, 
and  he  obeyed  his  mother's  directions,  and  retired  at 
once. 

Mrs.  Sutherland's  expostulations  next  day  were  in 
vain ;  her  son  would  go,  and  went,  and  she  and  Au- 
gusta were  left  in  desolate  November  to  mope  their 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


415 


rerc  in 


lives  away  in  the  dreary  solitudo  of  tho  forsaken  old 
homestead. 

What  a  wild-goose  chase  it  was — wandering  hither 
and  tliither  in  searcli  of  tho  poor  little  lost  wife.  Such 
a  weary,  fruitless,  dispiriting  search,  with  no  more 
trace  of  her  to  be  found  than  if  she  had  never  existed. 
November  wore  dismally  out.  December  came,  and 
Christmas  was  near.  Mr.  Sutherland  was  in  Montreal 
— some  faint  liope  that  Eulalie  might  liave  gone  to  her 
old  convent  home  had  taken  him  there ;  but  the  hope, 
like  all  his  other  hopes,  were  delusive.  He  was  sitting 
gloomily  in  his  room,  watching  the  passeu-by  on  the 
street,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  Philip  Sutherland 
walked  in. 

"  Phil,"  he  said,  "  you  here?" 

"  I  have  come  after  you,"  Philip  said  gravely. 
"  Your  mother  is  very  ill — a  severe  cold  and  inflamma- 
tion of  the  lungs.  You  must  return  to  Maplewood  at 
once !" 

Nothing  less  than  his  mother's  danger  could  have 
induced  Arthur  to  go  home.  But  there  was  no  hesitat- 
ing in  such  a  case,  and  before  evening  the  train  that 
bore  them  on  their  liomeward  way  was  flying  along 
tlu'ough  the  snowy  valley  of  old  Yermont. 

To  Arthur's  great  relief,  his  mother's  illness  had 
taken  a  favorable  turn  since  Philip's  departure,  and  a 
week  after  their  arrival  she  was  out  of  danger. 


"f 


116 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


"  There  is  no  longer  need  of  mj''  presence  here," 
Artliur  siiid  to  his  cousin,  when  the  crisis  was  over. 
"  I  sliall  leave  again  to-morrow." 

The  two  young  men  sat  in  the  library  before  the 
blazing  lire.  It  was  a  snowy  evening,  and  piercingly 
cold  ;  Majilewood  lay  in  a  ghostly  shroud  of  white — 
the  wintry  blast  shook  the  old  house  to  its  founda- 
tions. 

"  So  soon,"  said  Philip.  "  I — I  thought  you  would 
have  stayed  till  after  Christmas." 

lie  seemed  so  weary  as  he  said  it,  that  Arthur 
looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Why  si  ould  I  stay?  There  is  no  need  of  my 
presence  here,  and  I  shall  never  give  up  my  search  for 
my  lost  wife  while  life  lasts." 

"  AVell,"  said  Philip,  "  it  seems  despicable,  I  dare 
say,  to  speak  of  one's  self  and  one's  hopes  when  other 
people  are  so  miserable  ;  but  if  you  go  a\vay  so  soon, 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  Arthur,  you're  a  good  follow, 
I  know,  and — and — in  short,"  said  Doctor  Sutherland, 
des])eratcly,  "  will  you  give  me  Ai^gusta  ?" 

Imagine  Arthur  Sutherland's  sui'prise.  Imagine 
Philip  Sutherland's  Hood  of  explanations.  lie  liad 
held  out  long,  but  Augusta  had  brought  him  to  it  at 
last. 

"  She's  such  a  good  little  thing,"  Philip  said,  "  and 
willing  to  wait  for  me  half  a  dozen  years,  if  necessary. 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


417 


She  does  not  mind  my  being  poor ;  and  I  trust  you 
won't  citlier,  Arthur,  old  boy.  I  dure  not  speak  to  my 
stately  aunt.  I  ehouKl  bo  annihilated  at  the  first  word  ; 
but  if  you  arc  agreeable,  I  won't  despair." 

"  My  dear  Phil !"  said  Ai'thur,  very  niucli  sur- 
prised, "  I  give  you  my  word,  I  never  dreanit  of 
such  a  thing.  If  Augusta  be  willing,  I  certainly  have 
no  objection  ;  but  really  this  is  about  the  last  idea  that 
would  have  come  into  my  head.  Why,  Augusta  is 
perpetually  cpiarreling  with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  know,''  said  Doctor  Sutherland,  niefuUy, 
"she  is  a  little  cantankerous,  is  gusty  at  times,  but 
Boniehow  I  have  grown  used  to  it,  and  I  don't  think  I 
Bhould  enjoy  life  without  it.  So  it's  all  right,  Arthur, 
old  boy." 

Arthur  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You  have  my  best  Welshes  !  I  shall  use  my  influ- 
ence with  higher  powers  too,  and  you  may  not  have  to 
wait  so  very  long  after  all." 

Philip  shook  his  cousin's  hand  with  an  energy  that 
told  volumes,  and  then  hurried  oft'  to  relate  the  good 
news  to  expectant  Augusta. 

Left  alone,  Arthur  drew  closer  to  the  fire,  and  fell 
into  his  old  habit  of  staring  at  the  coals.  There  was 
an  oppres.sion  on  his  mind  this  night,  heavier  even 
than  the  oppression  that  never  left  it  now.  A  dim 
foresh!id<>wing  of  sunie  trouble  darker  than  any  that 
IB* 


418 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


had  come  yet  weighed  like  lead  ou  his  heart.  He  sat 
alone  there  by  tlie  fire,  that  vague  oppression  deepen- 
ing and  darkening  with  every  passing  hour,  until  he 
could  endure  it  no  longer. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  It  had 
ceased  snowing,  and  the  stars  were  clearing  sharp  and 
bright  through  the  blue  sky.  A  cold,  new  moon 
loomed  ghostly  in  the  snow,  and  the  skeleton  trees 
rattled  their  bare  arms  in  the  piercing  wintry  wind. 

"  A  cold,  clear  night,"  thought  Mr.  Sutherland;  "I 
shall  have  a  fine  day  for  my  journey  to-morrow." 

With  these  words  in  his  mind,  he  was  turning  away 
from  the  window,  when  he  suddenly  stopped. 

One  of  the  men  servants,  crossing  the  belt  of  snowy 
ground  between  the  trees,  and  directly  in  front  of  the 
window,  struck  against  something  lying  half-buried  in 
the  snow,  and  fell.  Picking  himself  up  again,  he 
stooped  to  examine  the  object.  A  second  after,  with 
a  yell  that  might  have  been  heard  half  a  mile  off,  he 
sprang  back,  and  fled  like  a  madman. 

Mr.  Sutherland  opened  the  window,  stepped  out, 
and  confronted  him  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  the 
liousc,  with  a  face  as  white  as  the  snowy  ground,  and 
with  dilated  eyes  of  horror.  Tlic  hand  of  his  master 
on  his  collar  brought  him  up,  all  standing. 

"What's  the  matter,  Eicliards?"  asked  Mr.  Suther- 
land, quietly.     "  What  was  that  you  fell  over  ?" 


FOUND    AND    LOST. 


419 


"  A  dead  woman,"  cried  Kichards,  with  chattering 
teeth.  "  Good  Lord,  preserve  us  !  That's  the  second 
I've  found !" 

"  A  dead  woman !"  said  Arthur,  recoiling ;  "  what 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Frozen  to  death,  sir,"  said  Richards ;  "  you  can 
look  for  yourself." 

m 

Arthur  dropped  the  man's  collar,  and  strode  through 
the  glazed  snow  to  where  the  dark  object  lay.  A 
woman — her  garments  fluttering,  where  tliey  were  not 
frozen,  in  the  wind — a  woman  lying  on  her  face,  as  she 
must  have  fallen.  Richards  stood  behind  his  master, 
shaking  more  with  fear  than  cold. 

"  Help  me  carry  her  into  ihe  house,"  said  Mr.  Suth- 
erland ;  "  she  may  not  be  quite  dead  yet." 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  lift  her,  though  she  was 
small,  her  dress  and  shawl — poor  and  thin  both — 
were  so  frozen  with  the  snow ;  but  they  did  manage  it 
at  last.  YQvy  gently  Arthur  raised  her  and  turned  lier 
face,  so  that  the  cold,  pale  moonbeams  fell  upon  it. 
Oh !  that  sight !  With  a  dreadful  cry,  that  Richards 
never  forgot,  she  fell  a  stiff  and  frozen  corpse  from  his 
arms. 

"Great  God!  EuMiel" 


420 


AFTEIi    ETQHT    TEARS, 


CHAPTEE  XXYII. 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS. 


;  ' 
I 


N  the  parlor-window  of  a  Broadway  hotel  a 

gentleman  sat  one  May  morning  looking 

very    thouglitfally    out    at    the  crowded 

thoroughfare.    Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 

in  the  bright  sunshine,  ceaselessly  the  tide  of  human 

life  flowed,  an  ever-shifting  panorama. 

The  gentleman  was  not  old — not  much  over  thirty ; 
but  there  were  threads  of  gray  in  his  hair,  and  deep- 
plowed  lines  marking  his  face ;  a  tall  and  distin- 
guished man,  with  a  certain  air  militaire  about  him, 
bronzed  and  bearded  under  a  Southern  sun.  The  sun- 
burnt face  was  very  grave,  and  his  eyes  had  a  misty, 
far-off  look,  as  if  he  were  gazing  more  into  the  dim 
past  tlian  the  sunlit  street  outside  his  window.  lie 
was  tliinking  so  deeply  that  lie  did  not  liear  his  door 
open,  nor  a  visitor  enter,  until  a  hand  fell  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  a  familiar  voice  sounded  on  his  c;ir: 

"Arthur  Sutherland,  turn  round  and  greet  an  old 
friend." 


AFTER    EIGHT    YEARS. 


431 


The  sunburnt  gentleman  started  to  his  feet,  and 
cordially  grasped  the  extended  hand. 

"  Phil,  my  dear  old  boy  I" 

That  was  all ;  but  they  shook  hands  with  a  vigor 
that  often  speaks  more  than  words ;  and  there  was 
something  like  tears  in  Phil  Sutherland's  eyes. 

"  It  is  good  to  see  your  honest  face  after  three  years' 
absence,"  he  said,  laughing,  to  hide  it.  "  I  don't  know 
but  your  military  honors,  colonel,  may  have  made  you 
forget  countrj^-cousius ;  but,  seeing  your  name  among 
the  arrivals,  I  ran  the  risk." 

"  I  should  think  so !  TIow  is  my  mother  and  Au- 
gusta, and  the  little  people  ?" 

"Never  better!  Eulalie  has  grown  out  of  all 
knowledge;  and  your  namesake.  Master  Arthur,  does 
his  best  to  keep  pace  with  her." 

"And  how  does  doctoring  thrive  in   St.   Mary's, 

Phil  r 

"  Well,  on  the  whole,  it  is  not  to  be  complained  of. 
There  are  always  measles,  and  whooping-cough,  jmd 
croup,  and  scarlatina,  and  rheumatism,  and  other  little 
things  of  that  sort,  to  keep  a  man  busy.  I  can't 
complain,  really." 

"  You  cold-blooded  rascal !  How  does  the  old  place 
look?" 

"  Capitally !  and  so  does  Augusta ;  weighs  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  if  she  does  an  ounce.     I  am  up  on  biisi- 


423 


AFTER    EIGHT     TEARS. 


noss  for  a  day  or  two,  and  return  to-morrow.  You 
will  accompany  mc,  1  hope,  or  you  need  never  look  to 
bo  forgiven,  in  this  world  or  the  nextl" 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,"  said  Arthur.  "  I  have  one  or 
two  friends  to  call  on,  and  a  little  business  to  trans- 
act." 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  Doctor  Phil,  carelessly,  "  I  was 
speaking  to  one  of  your  friends  yesterday — a  very  old 
one,  too!  Mrs.  Captain  Anderly — Miss  Isabel  Van- 
sell  that  was.     Perhaps  you  have  forgotten  her?" 

"  No,"  said  Arthur,  not  looking  at  him.  "  She  is 
well  ?" 

"  Quite  well,  and  as  young  and  pretty  as  ever  ;  and 
blushed,  she  did,  I  assure  you,  at  the  mention  of  your 
name !" 

"  Bah !  Captain  Anderly  was  a  fine  fellow.  I 
knew  him  well,  and  was  truly  grieved  to  hear  of  his 
death.  Is  it  medical  business  that  has  brought  you  to 
New  York,  Phil?" 

Phil  explained,  and  they  fell  into  desultory  talk. 
Presently  the  doctor  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  ten  years  ago,  Arthur,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  recollect  the  day  I  came  to  see  you  here,  after 
your  return  from  Europe,  and  we  talked  of  going  back 
to  Maplewood  together?" 

"  Yes,"  Arthur  sr!d,  very  gravely  ;  and  Phil,  recol- 
lecting himself,  blushed,  inwardly,  at  his  own  stupidity. 


AFTER    EIGHT     YEARS. 


433 


"Then  you  return  with  mc  to-morrow  to  Maple- 
wood  ?"  he  said,  taking  his  hat. 

Artliur  rcpHed  in  the  affirmative,  and  Phil  de- 
parted. 

Once  more  alone,  Arthur's  thoughts  went  back  into 
the  train  Pliilip's  entrance  hi^d  disturbed. 

"Ten  years  ago."  No  need  of  Phil's  reminding 
him  of  that.  Ten  years  ago  he  had  sat  looking  out  on 
sunlit  Broadway,  and  dreaming  of  Isabel  Yansell's 
azure  eyes  and  golden  hair.  Ten  years  ago,  and  the 
woman  wlio  had  been  his  fate  was  all  unknown.  SueJi 
an  enchanted,  blissful,  stormy  and  tragical  time  as  fol- 
lowed. Eight  years  ago,  and  his  little  Creole  wife's 
unhappy  story  was  ended,  and  she  lay  quietly  to  rest  in 
St.  Mary's  Cemetery.  He  had  been  a  wanderer  over 
the  world  since,  he  had  faced  death  and  Southern  bul- 
lets many  a  time,  but  that  was  all  ended,  too.  And 
now  he  sat  here,  as  he  had  sat  ten  years  ago,  looking 
out  on  the  same  men  and  women,  perhaps,  as  if  the 
dead  decade  had  been  only  a  dream.  As  on  that  day, 
Isabel  Yansell's  image  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  The 
fair,  serene  face,  the  seraphic  e^^es,  soothed  him  only  to 
think  of.  She,  too,  had  wedded — she,  too,  was  wid- 
owed. Had  the  time  come  for  the  words  left  unsaid 
ten  years  ago  to  be  said  now  ? 

Half  an  hour  after,  Arthur  Sutlierland  wns  ringing 
tlie  dooi'-bcll  of  Mrs.  Anderly's  house.     Mrs.  Anderly 


n 


424 


AFTER    EIGHT    TEAlia. 


was  at  home,  and  in  the  morning-room,  and  tlic  ser- 
vant tishered  him  in.  Had  the  past  come  back  to  her, 
too  ?  She  was  standing  as  he  had  left  licr — standing 
ten  years  ago,  in  the  halo  of  sunshine,  among  her  ger- 
aniums and  canary-birds.  Kot  a  day  older,  not  a  whit 
less  lovely — the  milk-white  skin  smooth  as  satin,  the 
rose-bloom  unfaded,  the  tinseled  hair  as  bright.  His 
dove-eyed  Madonna — his  stainless  ideal.  Only  not 
robed  in  Madonna  white — widow's  weeds  trailed  the 
rich  carpet,  and  he  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  Anderly,  not 
Miss  Yansell. 

They  were  very  quiet,  both — whatever  they  felt, 
no  outward  sign  testified,  as  they  talked  orthodox 
commonplace  platitudes.  Arthur  Sutherland  had  faced 
the  Southern  bullets  unflinchingly,  but  he  found  it 
hard  to  face  his  blue-eyed  ideal,  and  say  the  words  that 
filled  his  heart.  All  the  old  love  came  back,  as  if  ho 
had  indeed  left  her  yesterday ;  as  if  those  ten  dead  years 
had  never  come  between  them.     lie  said  so  at  last. 

"  How  familiar  it  all  is,  Isabel — ah  !  I  beg  3"our 
pardon,  Mrs.  Anderly."  The  rose-bloom  brightened 
on  the  pearly  cheeks. 

"  Call  me  Isabel,"  she  said,  softly  ;  "  I  like  it  best. 
T>j  you  mean  this  room  ?" 

"  This  room — the  flowers  and  the  birds,  and  you, 
Isabel." 

Iler  hands,  lying  idly  in  her  lap,  began  to  flutter. 


AFTER    EIGHT    TEARS. 


425 


"Do  you  not  find  me  changed?"  she  asked,  not 
looking  at  him. 

"  Only  in  this,"  touching  the  black  dress ;  "  you 
wore  white  when  last  we  parted." 

Her  head  dropped,  and  the  rosy  light  was  at  its 
brightest.     The  fluttering  hands  were  clasped  in  his. 

"May  I  say  to-day  what  I  meant  to  say  then, 
Isabel — that  I  love  you  ?" 

The  words  were  spoken,  and  the  fluttering  hands 
were  not  withdrawn.     He  was  answered. 

"  Oh,  Isabel,"  he  said ;  "  if  I  had  spoken  ten  years 
ago,  what  would  your  answer  have  been  ?" 

"  What  it  is  now,"  she  softly  replied  ;  "  yes !" 

Then  there  was  another  interval  of  silence,  but 
silence  was  better  than  talk  just  then.  Presently, 
Arthur  bent  over  the  golden  head  nestling  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  And  Captain  Anderly,  my  dearest  ?" 

"  My  husband  was  very  good  to  me,"  she  answered, 
simply  ;  "  and  loved  me  very  much.  I  was  truly  sorry 
when  he  died !     But,  Arthur — " 

"  Well,  darling." 

"  They  say  " — with  a  little  tremor  of  the  voice — 
"you  loved  your  wife  so  very,  very  much,  that — 
that—" 

"  Well,  Isabel,  you  are  not  jealous,  I  hope." 


420 


AFTEll    EIOUT    TEARS. 


"  Oh,  no !  but  perhaps  you  will  never  love  me  2A 
you  did  her  I" 

lie  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  sliall  love  you  with  all  my  heart  1  but,  Isabel, 
promise  me  one  thing  I" 

"  Anything,  Arthur !" 

"  That  you  will  never  have  any  secrets  from  me  I 
A  hidden  Secret  that  should  have  been  told  me  was  the 
ciinse  of  all  the  misery  of  my  married  life.  If  I  had 
only  been  told  it,  the  tragical  story  you  have  heard 
might  never  have  been  I  Some  day,  when  you  are  my 
wife,  you  shall  1-now  all — there  need  be  no  conceal- 
ment from  you.     Promise,  Isabel  1" 

"  I  promise,  dear  Arthur !" 

"  And  you  will  come  back  with  me  to  Maplewood 
—when  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  1  Some  time  this  summer,  if 
you  like." 

"  Not  so  long.     Say  in  a  month,  Isabel !" 

"  But,  Arthur—" 

"Why,  dearest,"  he  pleaded;  "why  need  we  wait? 
Fate  has  separated  us  a  long  time,  and  life  is  too  short 
to  be  spent  in  waiting.  I  want  to  take  you  to  my  old 
home,  where  I  have  been  so  supremely  happy  and 
supremely  miserable.  Let  me  take  you  to  Maplewood 
— my  love — my  wife,  before  the  May  moon  wanes." 

And    so    it  was  settled,   and  tliere  was  a  quiet 


AFTER    EIGHT    TEARS. 


427 


wedding  in  New  York ;  and  early  in  June,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Artlmr  Sutlierland  went  down  to  the  old  homo- 
Btead,  which  he  had  left  eight  years  ago,  and  never 
Been  since. 

Mrs.  Sutherland,  Senior,  and  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Pliilij)  Sutherland,  were  there  to  greet  them.  There 
were  the  "  little  people "  too.  Doctor  Phil's  two 
flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed  hoys,  plump  and  rosy  like 
mamma,  and  a  shy,  still,  little  dark  fairy,  with  a  moon- 
light sort  of  face,  looking  out  of  tangled  black  ringlets, 
and  a  pair  of  wonderful  black  eyes — Eulalie  Sutherland 
— the  living  image  of  her  beautiful  dead  mother.  A 
pale,  melancholy  child — heiress  of  fabulous  wealth, 
owner  of  wondrous  beauty  ;  but  a  pensive,  subdued 
little  creature,  fragile  as  a  lily.  Isabel  Sutherland 
drew  the  shrinking  child  toward  her,  and  stooping  to 
kiss  her,  something  fell  on  her  face  and  wet  it. 

That  tear — that  smile  which  followed,  made  them 
mother  and  daughter  at  once. 


" Isabel,"  Arthur  said,  "I  have  something  to  tell 
you — have  I  not  ?" 

His  wife  looked  up  from  her  embroidery  with  a 
smile.  They  were  sitting  together  alone,  in  the  misty 
June  twilight,  at  the  open  drawing-room  window, 
about  a  week  after  their  arrival. 


428 


AFTER    EIQIIT    YEAIiS. 


"  The  story  of  poor  Eiilalic's  secret,  wliicli  I  never 
knew  myself  until  she  lay  dead.  Isabel,  1  can  tell  you 
that  secret  in  four  words — she  was  a  slave  !" 

"  A — what  V^  repeated  Isabel,  va<^uely. 

"A  slave ;  the  dau<^hter  of  a  slave  mother,  and  ex- 
posed to  the  same  fate  herself.  This  is  liow  it  was : — 
Gustavus  Rohan,  her  <ij rand  father,  a  wealthy  Louisiana 
planter,  had  one  son,  Arthur,  who  fell  madly  in  love, 
when  very  young,  with  a  lovely  quadroon  girl,  the 
property  of  a  neighboring  planter,  between  whom  and 
Mr.  Rohan  there  had  existed  a  bitter  feud  for  years. 
The  quadroon  girl  was  the  pet  of  her  mistress,  and  iis 
educated  and  refined  as  the  lady's  own  daughter  might 
have  been — but  what  of  that  ?  she  was  a  slave.  The 
father  of  Arthur  Kohan  forbade  his  sou's  visiting 
Eulalie  Benoir,  under  pain  of  being  disinherited,  and 
the  result  was  a  secret  marriage  and  an  elopement. 
The  planter  who  had  lost  his  pretty  slave,  tl:e  father 
who  had  lost  his  son,  made  every  effort  to  trace  tlio 
fugitives,  but  in  vain.  Nothing  was  heard  of  either 
for  upward  of  a  year,  when  Mr.  Rohan  received  a  let- 
ter from  Cuba.  It  was  written  by  his  son's  wife,  and 
full  of  sorrowful  tidings.  The  young  husband  was 
dead — she  believed  herself  to  be  dying,  and  she  wrote 
to  beg  him  to  forgive  his  dead  son,  and  protect  that 
son's  infant  child.  Mr.  Rohan  departed  for  Cuba  at 
once,  in  time  to  see  the  poor  mother  die,  and  receive 


AFTER    ElOni    TEARS. 


420 


from  her  arms  tlic  black-cycd  baby  that  became  the 
idol  of  his  life.  lie  would  not  return  to  his  Louisianian 
home,  lest  his  enemy  there  should  discover  that  the 
child  ho  love<l  already  was  the  (lau<j;hter  of  his  run- 
away slave.  So  in  Cuba  ho  remained,  and  there 
Eulalie  grew  into  the  lovely  creature  whose  picture  you 
have  seen,  whose  living  image  you  behold  in  her  child. 
There  she  grew  up,  to  be  idolized  with  such  entire 
love,  such  absorbing  devotion,  as  few  in  this  world 
ever  knew.  That  very  intensity  of  love  made  the  old 
man's  misery.  Day  by  day  the  fear  grew  upon  him 
that  he  was  destined  to  lose  her  too,  thi-  idol  of  his 
heart,  and  by  a  fate  worse  than  death.  !She  would  be 
torn  from  him  ;  she,  the  child  of  a  slave,  and  a  slave 
herself,  was  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  his  relentless 
enemy  if  discovered.  There  was  but  one  chance  of  that 
discovery,  and  that  was  through  Eulalie's  own  uncle, 
her  mother's  brother  and  only  relative.  lie  was  several 
years  younger  than  that  unfortunate  young  mother, 
most  crafty,  cruel,  spiteful,  and  malicious.  He  had  all 
his  master's  hatred  of  the  Rohans — aggravated  tenfold 
by  his  sister's  flight.  lie  never  believed  in  her  mar- 
riage, of  which  there  "was  no  j^roof ;  and  by  some 
means  or  other — perhaps  his  sister  had  written  to  him 
also — he  discovered  that  she  had  left  a  child,  a  daughter. 
That  was  enough.  He  was  on  her  track  from  that 
moment.     To    discover    that   daughter,  and   revenge 


430 


AFTER    EIGHT    TEARS. 


himself  on  the  Rohans  by  tearing  her  from  her  grand- 
fatlier,  and  reducing  her  1:0  the  same  level  as  himself, 
became  the  baleful  object  of  his  life.  Mr.  Rohan 
knew  all  this — Eulalie  knew  nothing  of  her  dire  story  : 
she  thought,  as  we  all  did,  that  her  birthplace  had  been 
Louisiana,  her  mother  a  French  Creole  lady.  Her 
grandfather  never  undeceived  her  until  she  was  my 
betrothed  wife,  and  the  shock  stnick  her  down  like  a 
tliunderbolt.  She  was  taken  to  Cuba.  I  followed  her 
— and,  half  a  year  after,  still  ignorant  of  the  secret,  I 
married  her.  What  followed,  you  have  already  heard. 
Gaston  Benoir  found  her  out  here,  and  began  his  work 
of  vengeance.  On  the  eve  of  telling  me  all,  and  after- 
word, I  have  no  doubt,  taking  steps  to  tear  her  from 
me,  he  was  struck  down  himself  by  a  woman  he  had 
deceived ;  and  with  him  died  the  fear  of  Eulalie's  life. 
But  not  in  time  to  save  her — she  had  fled  already,  and 
all  search  for  her  was  vain.  Her  tragical  end  you 
know ;  and  in  a  letter  tc'  me,  hidden  in  the  breast  of 
her  dress,  I  read  what  I  have  told  you.  Where  she 
had  been  in  the  interval  of  her  flight,  I  have  never  dis- 
covered. Wherever  she  was,  and  it  could  not  have 
been  far  distant,  she  must  have  wandered  forth  in  an 
almost  dyii^'  state — delirious,  perhaps — and  fallen 
down  where  we  found  her.  What  I  suffered,  Isabel, 
after  that  horri^^'o  night,  is  known  only  to  heaven  and 
myself." 


AFTER    EIGHT    YEARS. 


431 


Two  soft  arms  went  round  his  neck,  two  loving  lips 
touched  his. 

"  Dear  Arthur,"  the  sweet  low  voice  of  his  wife 
said,  "  it  is  all  over— let  us  forget  it  from  this  hour. 
You  have  a  Eulalie  on  earth  and  a  Eulalie  in  heaven  ; 
and  remember,  *  After  tears  and  weeping  He  pouretb. 
in  joyf ulness  I' " 


THK  ENBw 


